HIS CORNER

He’s got chrome for teeth.

Hair slicked back like midnight rain.

Eyebrows thin as razors, like the blade

in his pocket and sin at the side;

a gold chain with a cross

signals belief without a past.

 

His eyes speak protection. An army

of force settles in his fists. From the corner

he searches sidewalks and open car

windows for faces of weakness and

cash he is owed.

 

The youth in his muscles the strength

in his voice, the past failed at gaining,

marking a loss. His smugness a mask,

from the links he forged on the corner

claimed.

 

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