Bad Crowd.

• Author: Moolten, David
• Position: Poem

Scared or loyal or scheming his pilgrimage Back to park shadows where junkies supplicate Small bags and the purity therein, he won't Yield the name like a synonym for the face That goes with the hand proposing them, The only thing he owns not yet hocked or soiled Out of habit. The prosecutor dangles A plea bargain better than any deal In North Philly and when her son says no It sends chills, makes her sick. Forget pushers And their ilk, vampires, slavers. Forget heroin, That powdered whore, what it does wholesale To the body. It's him as an old snapshot Of childish innocence, her own humble dreams That corrupt and absolutely. Desperate, she's tried Detox, methadone, even filched blank scripts From the clinic he could forge for clean needles. They want just one of his slow murderers, And she'd seen one, a centipede scar crawling Down his shoulder. She'd followed her son, watched them Hug-slap each other's backs, two boys, two drafts Of the same futile effort to get it right. He puts on soft eyes, the nice shirt she bought Because none of his did him justice, conscious He's a living...