the raffish
by Barbara Daniels
Gun shots. Wrecked cars
splayed across roadways.
Unwashed girls
showing off skin.
Dickens walks night after
night in my little city,
unerringly finds the worst
parts of town. I see him--
duplicitous, curious,
generous—brush
the curls from foreheads
and cheeks. Touch hands
like a father, like a son.
Spoiled, hunted, he wipes
his eyes. Walks toward
a flickering gaseous light.
Squares his shoulders.
Takes me by the hand.
splayed across roadways.
Unwashed girls
showing off skin.
Dickens walks night after
night in my little city,
unerringly finds the worst
parts of town. I see him--
duplicitous, curious,
generous—brush
the curls from foreheads
and cheeks. Touch hands
like a father, like a son.
Spoiled, hunted, he wipes
his eyes. Walks toward
a flickering gaseous light.
Squares his shoulders.
Takes me by the hand.
Barbara Daniels’ book Rose Fever was published by Word Tech Press and chapbooks Black Sails, Quinn & Marie, and Moon Kitchen by Casa de Cinco Hermanas Press. Her poetry has appeared in Prairie Schooner, Mid-American Review, and elsewhere. She received three fellowships from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts.
