2016-12-11

indian summer scene
— poetry by Justin Hyde

The dealer
who rents a basement nook
across the street
has another young thing on the needle

They disappear after dark
he on an orthopedic knee scooter
she on a bike three sizes too small

sliding back down thirty-fifth street
before dawn
wide arcs and yellow laughs
backpacks filled with bartering stock pinched from garbage cans
and unlocked cars

I often wonder when the elastic will snap
with these two

Not today

He's gotten hold of a bubble machine
holding it down at his waist like an old time camera
smiling like popeye

Her black hat is so low
I can't see her eyes

She dances like a gypsy
swaying beyond
whatever brought her to this place

The bubbles blow
and blow

fanning past my third story window
to a purple
cloud streaked sky.



_
Justin Hyde is a poet and Literary Editor for The Commonline Journal. He is the former Poetry Editor of Thieves Jargon and the author of the chapbooks Down Where the Hummingbird Goes to Die (2008) and Another Casualty at the 34th St. Bus Stop (2009). His last collection of poems is An Elephant Hole (2014, Interior Noise Press). He lives in Iowa and works with criminals. 

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