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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=455361" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Woolworth's</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">for Greg Fallon</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A kid yells &quot;Mother Fucker&quot; out the school bus window.<br>I don't think anyone notices the afternoon clouds turning pink along the horizon,<br>sunlight dripping down the stone facades,<br>the ancient names of old stores fading like the last century<br>above the street, above the Spandex women who adjust their prize buttocks,<br>sweating in the sun as I wonder how this city that has no more memory of itself<br>than a river has of rain, survives.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Is it just a matter of time, or that peasant woman<br>who tugs my sleeve demanding &quot;peseta&quot; from every passing stranger:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I can still smell the hotdog counter and the pretzel carousel.<br>I loved the sound of birds as I entered, the watery bubbles<br>from aquarium filters over by the plants.<br>If I imagined like a child walking with my mother,<br>the store part rainforest, and closed my eyes<br>I was in som tropical country:<br>that feathered blue against the orange of forgotten sunsets<br>after the rain-washed streets erased the footprints<br>of tired mothers who waited in line<br>under the red and gold transom<br>to cash their welfare checks.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And maybe we're all feeling the same rage,<br>seeing the up-turned fish tanks stacked against the parakeet cages,<br>sunlight catching on the twisted wire between the shabbiness<br>of an emptied storefront, rays of sunlight poking in<br>to finger the dusty hollowness of barren shelves.<br>Or maybe it's the cheap Plexiglas above the Chinese lettering<br>or the sound of car alarms and sirens blaring us back.<br>The city dead in me swaying down these aisles,<br>like everything else that fell from my life.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I walk down Main Street<br>trying to regain my balance<br>behind the men who walk home<br>from sweaty jobs with clenched fists<br>and the women who follow them<br>pulling their children<br>like dogs in the rain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Anonymous submission.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Mark+Hillringhouse">Mark Hillringhouse</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=455361" data-title="Woolworth's de Mark Hillringhouse" data-description="for Greg Fallon

A kid yells &quot;Mother Fucker&quot; out the school bus window.
I don't think anyone notices the afternoon clouds turning pink along the horizon,
sunlight dripping down the stone facades,
the ancient names of old stores fading li..."></div>
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