Poetry by DB Cox |

one-story house

rotting & rundown
sits like the corrupted
of a dying neighborhood
eye-like windows
front door
torn away-gaping
like an open mouth
with nothing to say
murky hallways
always half-lit
by the yellow glow
of glass pipes
where only those
can decode the lexicon
spray-painted along
fractured walls
low-slung cars
crawl the boulevard
injecting sub-sonic
bass lines
into the twilight
bad-ass backing track
for well-strapped gangs
banging both sides
of the block
settling old scores
over scars as cold
as tagged toes
behind stainless steel
freezer doors down
at the city morgue
nightly play of d.o.a.
where no one
gets a curtain call
blue-light reflections
caught in the glass
of one-story windows
on the street
where the lost
keep house