Drive By


A misfire of justice.
The worry of something hard and smooth.
The tactile test of opal along the fingers.
The soft parts of the flower or the hard stature of a man imposed.
In the terrarium of the inner city the lid cracked and not enough
peanut butter to spread the length of four children.
Perhaps a therapy of furniture, two minutes on the couch
in between shifts, an entire living room set $59 a week.
Cigarette butts and a used condom on the sidewalk.
Tobacco stuffed in paper and sold in cartons.
Three days wages at a time.
Here azaleas bloom only in books and a plastic crocodile
in the back of an abandoned car.
Wheels and tires too far gone to tempt petty crimes.
On a street corner a blue light warns of a higher power.
The fact at any moment a man’s hand can reach down and grab you.
The eco-system remains artificially out of balance.
Paint comes unstuck from the walls.
The sun splatters white across a window sill
and nails hum under the strain of it all.
The center of the stoop gives way until from the edge
of the road it resembles a smile.

This poem appeared in the Hole in the Head Review, May 2020.

About the author

Mickie Kennedy

Mickie Kennedy is an American poet who resides in Baltimore County, Maryland with his family and two feuding cats. He enjoys British science fiction and the idea of long hikes in nature. His work has appeared in American Letters & Commentary, Artword Magazine, Conduit, Portland Review, Rockhurst Review, and Wisconsin Review. He earned an MFA from George Mason University.

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