The Slant


The Slant

I lived in a slanted-floor place and saw someone killed in

The courtyard – I was walking to trade Woody Shaw albums at

A friend’s, staring at the sky and picturing a blue-black never

Seen, hoping a little firecracker could make things right.


On his knees, bent over and gasping for air,

If he just would’ve paid up, of course, earlier.

It’s always early when that time comes.


“Whatever it is, it’s not good,” said the first cop,

The swirl of those colored lights only make you dizzier,

And they never come with music.