rain came
for s' many nights
it began to hurt
cuttin our lives
like bits of glass
in a black alley
sparklin
glitterin
on a wet street
bleedin all over
an grade-a
an zolie
an me
waited
wondered
watched
the steady storm
lookin close
for signs
of an end
to it
to night
an we heard
noises
voices
'ain't no sense
hangin here
cold done a
hold a him'
grade-a said
an we
walked away
leavin murphy
face down
an soaked
lookin like an
island in rain
Astor Simpson was a mountain poet and writer who was raised in Detroit and lived in Kentucky at the time this poem appeared.
This appears in the October 1984 issue of Sojourners
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