The street ends.
A chambermaid runs from the rain
ducks into the Flea Bag motel
a taxi’s signal pops...blink blink…pops
Stretched along the avenue
a video store welcomes a customer once
an hour. High heeled bar whores stand
around, wait for happy hour cocktail prices.
Puppy dog eyed blond child safe under
a bus stop structure. She sits while mother
gets misted by dirty rain castoffs from passing cars.
A horn blows as one car catches a peek at her exposed legs.
Check cashers work diligently to rip off as many
people as they can before closing time. A wino
pushes his cart with the singing wheel up behind
the abandoned warehouse.
I crouch low in my seat. Coffee steam warmth close
to nose hairs. Pen ink runs a little dry. I press
the point to my tongue but it does little.
I have to end this
As the city never ends. My city. All I got
is 65 cents, some words and observation.
A faded half decent poem scribbled on a
napkin.
Julie Ellinger Hunt, 31, has been writing poetry since she could construct a sentence. Her full collection, "Ever Changing", is being printed and should be released by late summer/early fall. Julie resides with her two boys and husband in a very inspiring suburban atmosphere.