at the neck of the bottle

this Bic is spent
I carefully tuck it back
in my hip pocket. to cast it off
would tickle my fear, so
I’m re-intimated
with another piece
of permanent rubbish. It’s very dark
on this side
of 17th avenue ( the skid
needs no illumination)
reeking local brew seeps
out the barn doors to guide
all the weary in
against better judgment. Someday
soon they’ll figure
a way to Gentrify this strip
and Fascists will outnumber
ghetto whores
for the first time
in the history of Forest Lawn, but
not tonight.
so armed, with dull plastic, no flame
and an enoumous wound
I’m safe among the wasted
to hustle ’til my yellow teeth
ache in delight.
a cheap shot, a warm job
and a cold release
I feel better in the gutter, hiding
from the other side
of this cash-drunk city.

~ j fisher

j fisher lives and writes in Calgary’s downtown core. He grooms greenscapes by day, and mines the underbelly at night.

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