photo credit: Trevor Logan, Jr.
Neutral Ground
On the corner of Carrollton and Willow,
waiting for a bus, the # 34,
to be exact,
I sat on the neutral ground grass,
translating ancient Greek,
oblivious to the hatred.
A red boy and his friends,
in a pick-up truck,
stopped at the traffic light;
he spewed something my way —
knocked on my skull and dropped
among a soggy tootsie roll wrapper,
a bottle cap —
Vroom, like a cartoon,
You fucking bitch
and I merely turned to acknowledge
with a grin
and a greeting.
Not to turn the other cheek,
but out of habit.
I smiled, caught a glance
and turned back to my paperback
Greig Roselli
New Orleans, Louisiana
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