The People We Meet (I/III)

Benjamin Jenkins, life, poem, poems, poetry, writing

I float down the concrete.

Biting on an apple,

Chewing over

The previous night.



Condos on Front Street;

Financed by taxed poker winnings.


An Australian kid told me

His Pop owns a farm back home.

He shoots crows

And strings ‘Em up

“so the others will know”.

Had to put down a Kangaroo

Who had gotten herself

Into a rabbit trap.

No other way

But to grab

The wood axe.

His Pop said:

“The tomatoes,

I can hear ‘em suckin’ ‘em down”.



I won’t be home

Until 4 at morning.

Smelling of cigarettes,

taxi cabs, and reefer.

It’s so strange how

we drift and collide.

You at home,

far from my makeshift home.

So strange.


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