Sunday, April 24, 2005


The Y at 23rd and High, across the street from Red Eye Pete's Saloon, A radio groans out a tune no one knows or listens to. Nobody shares. Nobody cares. A blind-man stares at empty air but nothing's there, The smell of stale piss everywhere. Tears are shed by the living for the dead, but nothing's said. Old men mutter memories, lost wealth and families, long-forgotten luxuries and dream of friends where past and present blend into as maze of missing days,

The Y at 23rd and High hard by the Gospel Church of God where nobody cares what you are or were---a Jesus freak, a pius Jew, a follower of laws without a cause. A place to sleep while roaches creep up windowless walls, where down the hall's a shower stall, a single seat to do it all, a rat to keep you company, to share your spare crumbs ravenously. Where the old go to die, the young to cry, the weak to sigh, the angry to defy. All to ask why.

The Y at 23rd and High, Goodbye