13thWR

A COVENANT HOUSE SITS ON RAMPART

Huddled together, the girl wears
a male's black leather
jacket backward like a blanket
as he smokes a cigarette.
Unwashed, grimy hair spiked, her
scalp is tattooed in designs
learned in correctional school,
ink unevenly applied
by hand and needle. In old trash
caught where a stoop corners,
asleep, they don't seem to notice
sounds of cars or footsteps
leaving run-down, all night bars.
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen,
are numbers, his first wispy beard
sad. For ten, fifteen, twenty
dollars either one is available,
or both of them together,
depending on what is wanted done
and how hungry they are.

Quick and dirty in an alley,
or backseat of a car, neon cuts
in flashes of darkness. Tonight
they won't look through dumpsters.
Tomorrow, St. Mark's back door
serves breakfast to a broken line
of men, bag ladies, runaways.
Three shining chrome safety pins
glitter from each earlobe.
I cannot imagine how bad it was
back where they came from.
Streets have no walls, no roof,
no doors closed, no lock,
no key to turn away others' eyes.
From what have they escaped?
A Covenant House sits on Rampart.
they discuss going there
and the abstraction of freedom
as they pass between lips a joint:
It's what's left until tomorrow.

- John Cantey Knight