Burning in Hell

by Alan Catlin

Riverside fog and swamp gases
in the low lying marsh, bulrushes
and the thin brown reeds where
the smokers inhale blue clouds
and slow burning tips, glass pipes
and low moans from the jackal faced
stoners, petty tipsters and penny ante
johns stumbling in the dark, lighting
their Zippos now that the scarred,
bent necks of the pole lamps have been
shot out, are irreparable, the damage
done negligible in the lives of the terminally
lost, blundering their way down blacktopped
walkways leading to where the wrought
iron railings have been ripped away,
sold for salvage, twelve pieces of crack,
the weight of one soul on fire along
the muddy banks of this overflowing
river cutting through the heart of hell.


*email: thecatlins@msn.com