Tripped us all up housed in that outskirt place,
dome of city up the way. No streets there,
no carousel to dream on. Up the tracks he comes.
Something says his name’s Yashin.
Awash in freezing life urban and chaotic.
Cigarettes fly everywhere, colors ruined by the track.
He stepped that line and washed back to his door.
Groans by brownstone disconnected later.
His grandmother now coming back
to see where he’s been at. Flouts the scene.
It’s like TV until I see it’s every time the same
attack, regret that starts so slowly, or doesn’t start.
TV, or it was a dream I thought until the realm became
my own, my number up as well.
Nancy Bevilaqua‘s poems have been published in or accepted for future publication by Atticus Review, Apogee Journal, Kentucky Review, Menacing Hedge, Construction, here/there, Hubbub, Houseboat, and other publications. She is the author of Holding Breath: A Memoir of AIDS’ Wildfire Days, and will be publishing a poetry chapbook entitled Gospel within the year.