I wrote “Epitaph” (In the Cat’s Eye, 2009), to be carved on
the concrete streets of inner city America.
It is what the young in the inner cities might write on the gravestones
of the old. Many of them, like most youth, assume they will never grow old. And on these streets, some of them will be right: their tombstones will be the scars on the land, left by the violence that has raised them.
For those who do survive, it is a winding and sometimes terrifying road to a
land of invisibility and irrelevance. In the mean streets of our cities, these
are often the lost souls sitting on doorsteps and leaning against the walls of
abandoned buildings, almost like they have developed a symbiotic relationship
with those empty structures.
“Epitaph” describes a place where surviviors write the stories of their
lives in invisible ink: on streets that belong to the young.
Glenn K. Currie
Epitaph
Hey, old man,
Shufflin’ away,
Deck is stacked
It’s the dealers’
play.
No place left
For five cent gin,
Bets are in,
You didn’t win.
Hey, old man,
Wallpaper face,
No one sees you,
Lost in space.
Sidewalks are filled
With fools like you,
Hangin’ around
Pretendin’ to do.
Hey, old man,
Holdin’ up that wall,
Your job is done,
Let it fall.
No one works
When it’s for free,
Whatever will be,
Will be, will be.
Hey, old man,
Don’t you know?
Jungle survivors
Are shovelin’ snow.
Plastic bags
Collectin’ lives,
Measured out
In forty-fives.
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