Before We Go Blind

Before We Go Blind

Children are the closest thing we have to God
before we teach them whom to spit on.

I am their spittoon.

I watch my cigarette smoke through clumpy, greasy hair,
and wear the same clothes I fell asleep in two nights past.
I feel low and weak like a boy standing in his father’s shadow.
From my apartment patio I hear rocks crack against the concrete sidewalk.
    The little neighbor girl.

Normally, she leans on my front porch lamp post wide-eyed,
like I’m someone who should have statues in my name
and medals around my neck.

Other days she will circle a few times on her old blue bike,
green sucker swelling her cheek. She asks if I’ve fixed my guitar string.

I say no, but I have.

She hands me a gold magazine filled with glossy pages
of pumpkins, turkeys, and evergreen titled “Holiday Fundraiser”

She didn’t see the long, greasy hair,
the holes in my jeans and empty pockets, or the kick me sign taped to my back.
She thought I was sturdy like her father and wouldn’t let her down,
but I had no choice.

Choosing to look at the gray concrete over an innocent blue sky
she walks away with her eyes down.

In her mind I am the person I hate,
and I dump that dirty spittoon on my own head.