Someone Else Was Killed Last Night by Alan Catlin

Table fans move the dead,
humid air, scented with smoke
of half-tobacco, half-dime bag
weed blunts and idling road blocking
car exhaust. Street dealers on
sidewalk, sagging front porches,
trade coded handshakes, well
wrapped product, and fifty dollar
bills with best bros. Their come-
alive- after-five jive talk,  lost in
deep bass radio thrum, chopped
hogs caravanning down high echo
side alleys.  All night, every night,
in endless no rain heat wave,
summer months blend into yet
another haze choked, airless,
too hot to think, too humid to breath, day.
No deposit beer bottles by the case
inside ratty walkup room already
warm to the touch once the ice chest
lid is closed. Outside, between
deliveries, permanently busted,
no drive cars, leaking black plastic
sacks of garbage and the solemn,
eerie faces of the dealers in green halos
of cell phone light always talking but
never to someone nearby. Distant sirens
drawing near: somewhere out there,
in the no street light night, someone
is shooting someone else.
And tomorrow, maybe here, their friends
will be shooting someone back.

Alan Catlin
Alan Catlin is the poetry editor of His latest books of poetry are American Odyssey from Future Cycle and Last Man Standing from Lummox Press

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