Tonight's Poet Corner: The Bad Street

The Bad Street

by Belinda Roddie

On the corner, you'll see the storyteller;

he writhes as if Athena's knowledge

is bursting from his loins, like a fountain

erected within his swollen groin. The tales
he tells are masturbatory at best - the words
are strung together like floss jammed
between the remains of his teeth, making

his gums bleed as he enunciates his

pseudo-epiphanies. Next to him, a young

woman counts coins in her hand, wearing dirt

and grime and sweat like a second overcoat. She

is missing three fingers. The first she lost because

of her ex-husband, when he swung at her

with the knife he was using to slice open

his feelings. The other two were crushed

under the wheel of a sheriff's car, the man

in blue unceremoniously leaving the hot

rubber to scald her while she was sleeping

on the curb. She still makes good use

of the remaining middle finger, though -

it makes a pretty bird that flaps its wings above

the urban decay you wander in. The cigarette

smoke is a perfume; the urine, an aphrodisiac.

The people resting on their garbage bag beds

would love different aromas, but you've pushed

them out of bakeries and soup kitchens so

they won't salivate so much. And you bury

your face in your tailored sleeve so you can't

look at their scars. But the storyteller, he'll

snatch your attention if only for a little

bit. His convulsions stop for just a moment,

just in time for him to regale you with the

adventures of a middle-aged, middle class,

midlife crisis man who tried to stay

comfortable within his privilege, but he felt
his own skin come apart around his heart, and

he screamed like a volcano, and he erupted

like a volcano, too. Bursts and subsides.