Rich Furman
The hammer to the sign post
Outside the bar,
a Black women,
not that
race matters,
and not that
it doesn't,
asks me to trade,
her shoes for mine,
for some change,
and asks me my sign
and then tells me hers.
I give her my change
walk towards the bus:
board, sigh,
look at the faces,
hanging lonely hounds,
the shadows outside
singing of death.
Get off the bus,
by the luck of the cards,
the roll of the dice,
the hammer to the sign post,
the pain of all pains,
the blast in the wall,
the sprinkle of dew.
Open the door,
rub my dog's belly,
as she chews on my hand.
1993
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