Construction Entrance #7 by Danielle Blasko

Four thinning tarps clang against four metal gates. Dog shit.
Dog vomit with candy corn in it. A mini, empty apple pie box. Suite 7. Suite 4.
No parking, towing enforced. Forcing entowed echoes in a mind.

A memory of a cruel child’s act in a scene like this fifteen years ago surfaces.
He wasn’t a cruel child actually, but he pissed on the back of a poor, black alley cat.

Why were we in this scene to begin with? Three kids
(me, my brother and the pissing cousin) were wandering in an alley
with a drunken mother spying on her drunken husband.

We hit a bump so hard driving home that night our heads hit the van roof.
Later, us kids entertained ourselves with a dollhouse roof placed atop one of our
heads as we chanted the roof, the roof, the roof is on fire and roof, roof, Roofio!

Tin-sided buildings here stink of exhaust fumes and urine like the ones back home.
A feeling is about like meeting again for a midnight rendezvous to do things
that belong only in dreams. What comes after 40 days? Another 40 days.

An empty Budweiser bottle, a plastic cup and a sewer.
The scene has been staged: eighteen years ago, in a state northwest of here,
two little girls spat the plastic cup’s poison into a sewer for the rats to drink.

 

About Danielle Blasko

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