The Wall
The ordered world assumes
that if street people work hard
at 9-5 jobs nobody would give us
on a bet
we could rise to poverty level
and wouldn’t that be nice
to get what we need?
but how about what the ordered world needs from us?
People need dreams and discontent
and the darkness we hide in,
the null and void before creation,
the cancelled cornucopia
where we’re hunted by cops
and hunting each other
and giving to anyone passing by
a soul worth selling.
Yes, dreaming’s a dirty job
but somebody’s got to do it.

Street Singer
She looks like a pile of feather mattresses
of the kind
that are supposed to be bad
for your back
'cause they feel so good
they gotta be bad for something.
Big pillow breasts
and room for a small teddy bear
in her second chin.
3 skirts, the bottom one red,
swirl over her hips
wide as a barn door with a haystack inside.
Her small children pluck at her purple shawl
and play in her mammoth shadow.
Her deep drowsy voice
almost fell asleep
and forgot it was singing.
Head thrown back, shut eyes,
dyed orange hair with brass bells in it.
She jangles cheap bracelets
up to her elbows
as if she were rolling the music
out like cookie dough.
Sweat is sweet as jam on her throat.
She's not pretty.
And she's not young.
But she's spreading so much softness
every passing man wants to come over
and lie down

-- Julia Vinograd