These Days

The morning news deserves a poem featuring a liquor store.

Photo credit: Reuters

A man went through the nearby subway turnstiles around 8 am with all the commuters this morning, set off a smoke bomb and began to shoot. 10 people went down, others hurt in the run for the exit. Current count is 15 but checking the local hospitals and medical centers for more. Police/FBI/Homeland Security surround our neighborhood. News and police helicopters sweep low over our rooftops. Multiple family texts piled in. Our sons call: is their father, who takes that subway line to work, okay? He is safe at home and, yes, our doors are double locked.

Getting up at 5 am this morning and failing to finish a story about corner bars becomes inconsequential. So I am sending you this poem by Nate Marshall. It shares a bit of my story’s setting, it’s food and drink. Take it as a bookmark for now and my story will be here tomorrow.

Fame Food & Liquor
BY NATE MARSHALL
we cut down 115th street for a quicker stroll
past the pastor's house, vacant lot, liquor store.

buses pointing out the hood & back. the route
every morning goes by the liquor store.

the loose Philly blunts and hard & dry. the sour mouth
washed away by a dull gulp of liquor. store

a honey bun in your fat back pocket. pray
nobody notices your awkward walk. this liquor store

sees stumbling often. out front the garish stickers fluoresce
on the wire windows like winos with liquor store

bottles. a small weapon sits behind the counter hidden by the cigarettes
& candy small enough to steal. when the liquor store

is locked up the rolling metals make the window
a pastoral, part of our natural habitat. behold the liquor store:

the sugar waters, the Ziploc bag of coins
& Nate's tongue the color of loose pennies in the liquor store.