these blank lines
on the notebook paper
make me bleak and uneasy
like the thought of a book
no one will ever read
in the far corner of an empty library
about a vacant house
with a netless hoop
on a street with no kids
near a closed factory
where hours crawl
without a car passing by
in a gray town
with pay by week motels
and payday lending
where unsmiling bastards
will take all you have
and vanish into the cold wind
that pushes you
and your empty pockets
past the corner store
where a man in a cage
makes change
and nothing else
leaves at dawn
for his half a duplex
with windows painted shut
that fail to keep out
the curses and shouts
of the dealers next door
who get their lights cut off
unable to steer clear
of their own product
that moves into town
in the trunk of a Plymouth
from two states away
new tires and a tune-up
a bet against dying
on the side of the road
when night comes down
and cops with dogs
shove flashlights in your face
and don’t believe
a word you say
because they’ve heard it all
they hear prison bars
clanging shut
then break for the diner
that comps bad coffee
but stays open
when no one else will
when the sleepless roam
they won’t stay home
they flee bad dreams
they wander like soldiers
stumbling survivors
of luckless platoons
that took a wrong turn
lost radio contact
became forgotten
then appear in my mind
in the middle of the night
trembling reminders
that wake me
and take me
where I don’t want to go
that say nothing
and pull me
down into winter
________________________
Bob Hudson was born in Jackson, Mississippi, where he now lives, works, and spreads happiness and joy to all he meets.