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Whiskey and Change
February 9, 2014
Cracked pavement slapped by warmonger shoes
That waged war on the sons of labor and broken homes.
A slippery concoction of smog and sunlight rests in this place
Layered with madness and bitter feuds.
And there on a street corner rests a bottle,
Swallowed in the cloak of a brown paper bag.
Its bottle not cracked by a clumsy drunk hand
Nor is it a piece of evidence from a crime.
Half-drunk by a stereotype familiar to these parts,
Yet it is stinking of hope.
© Samantha G., W. Orange, NJ
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