"Section 8"

we sat in the smoking den at night in
exhaled purses of steaming dreams
outside the hospital waiting for
the hesitant procession to begin.
his threatened blaring heatstroke
and i hung on his every word as
the passing cars veered the weight
of madness.

"my section eight worker played me for a fool,"
his voice made of glass
i assorted the broken bits
and freudian slips
into a shattered pane.

"she doesn't understand that when my parents
sell more real estate, people talk about me"

a strange kind of majesty
his beady eyes seemed green
diamond artifacts smothered
by gusts of whipping sand in
a forgotten foreign land

a strange kind of majesty he
lives downtown reading books about
genealogy and studding his back door
with iron years of phantom fears

"there was a crocodile in my apartment
and i had to call the police"

somehow my ears piqued like a
pointing fence
and everything he said made perfect sense

a strange kind of majesty he
makes coffee on sundays.
John Thomas Allen
ryan wright