January 7, 2010


by Howie Good

Birds scuff for dark crumbs
under the sidewalk tables.

A police spy in the corner
notes the time. Everywhere

there are sons of bitches.
In a dingy rooming house

boarders come and go unseen
except for the burnt matches

they drop in the hall.


Crafty Green Poet said...

excellent poem, as is always the case from Howie Good

Tasha_Klein said...

i'd cut the last line.

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