Santa Monica
ain’t the worst place to find yourself
homeless, said the man who lived in the back
room of the Vegas hostel. People
come from all over. What
you didn’t know that? They got good services
there. Act 50/51 and you’ll
make out all right. And keep an eye out
like that cabbie, just asked Kelvin for
change? He said go in that shop? We
woulda got a tip for that info
back in the day. Me and my
boy played all the angles. We never
hurt no one. Just angles
is what I’m saying
if you’ll listen to what I’m saying. You
gotta. Of course you gotta. His voice
wavered on the edge of the
freshly-painted white chalk line
and back again. No breeze stirred
but I shivered in the glare of the sun
and considering the inches between us.
You Put on the Beige
pin-stripe shirt, too big at the
back, one size supposed to fit all
however you play it
you resemble a packing crate
with neon orange logo
if only it said Morocco or
Tanzania or somewhere and if
I were made of cardboard
Angela says she’s counting
how many times the chef sends
out a steak well done instead
of medium rare. I say I’m
waiting for something bigger
a Schnitzel dentate
eat a customer for a change. They
can bog in this mob, she agrees,
staring at the chewed meat necklacing
the plates, ice cream wrappers
shipwrecked in the middle, more
food on the floor or on the table?
the kitchen starts up a wager. My
turn to clean the baby puke. This
bruise? Angela says, rolling up
her sleeve. Fucking
Gary dropped the fryer on me. That’s
internal bleeding right there
we agree.
About the author:
Rose Hunter has had poetry and prose in various journals including Juked, The Barcelona Review, Storyglossia, and previously in Word Riot. Links to her writing can be found at her blog, Whoever Brought Me Here Will Have to Take Me Home. She is also the editor of the new poetry journal YB. From Australia originally, she lived in Canada for many years, and is now living in Mexico.
