A swastika on the wall
behind the convenience store
where the Nigerians deal
and the junkies score;
their hey-mans and yo-bros
all in slow-mo.

The crunch of broken bottles
under heavy boots that crush
empty dreams and broken bones;
footsteps follow neon lights,
the concrete cold reptilian vein
that spits venom and swallows whole.

Past the boys in blue
whose bite is worse than their bark;
these camouflaged stray dogs
made up of shadow-fur and pus,
prying with hungry eyes that howl
for their own sorry existence.


4 thoughts on “Walkabout

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