Tonight's Poet Corner: But Then the Street Lamps

But Then the Street Lamps
by Belinda Roddie

When I've got my black hoodie
and khakis on, it's like I'm invisible
in the dirtiest part of the city. I keep
a blade against my hip and courage
in a drawn out thread across my chest -
tattooed, scribbled, scarred.

When I go to the store for a six pack
and a bag of Doritos, the clerk doesn't
question me. He speaks English, bad English,
but it's enough for the transaction to go
smoothly. When he asks for ten bucks,
I give him eleven, and drop the loose Washington
into the "donation" jar like a cheap smile
on a full moon night.

When I meet my gang on the corner of
Ravine and Tower, there's already been
a shitstorm. I give them a can of beer each
and a crunch of artificial cheese dust. They
wipe blood from their noses and off
the frayed collars of their white T-shirts. Why
wear white when the fabric can get so red?
I have no idea.

And when the cheap booze is drained, we
chase each other into the fog of another
spring night. When I've got my black
hoodie and khakis on, it's like I'm
invisible. But then the street lamps
get brighter, and suddenly every part
of me is lit up like I'm on fire.