poem index

poet

Jack Anderson

Printer-friendly version

by this poet

poem
The dread, always, 
of coming to this: 

to sit 
day after day 
chain smoking 
in a soiled undershirt 
beside the cracked window 
of a fifth-floor walkup 
on Railroad Avenue 
with stains on the wall,  
dead flies on the sill, 
no hot water, 
and the cold water rusty; 

to sit 
smoking and coughing 
watching dust