Guarding the Edge


Outside my bedroom window,
dealers meet their daily quota
pumping the walking dead.
Hookers bargain for memories
in the back of run-down Chevrolets.

A man screams Armageddon
Nobody cares what he says.

The Buddhist sits on my doorstep.
Mud stains coat his feet.
He says we're all connected;
muggers hiding in alleys,
old ladies prone on the street.

I laugh at the distant rumblings,
flip on my wide screen TV, 
cracks already cobwebbing
my carefully guarded space.

Pris Campbell
©2002

Published in Thunder Sandwich Jan 2005

Art: Time Has No Limits by Chagall

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