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the hungry prince
she sits on a bar stool, her legs encased in tight gray slacks, a wrinkled cigarette dangling from her full red lips
she stands on her too-high high heels, every eye on her
someone makes a lewd remark
she laughs and heads for the door
sauntering along the main drag, she passes by the bums and whores, junkies, pimps -
all of them drugged pathetic skittish - on this frigid night
she wants a slice of pizza at the take-out joint just up ahead - near the end of the block - but then the 'pizza' light suddenly goes out
she hears distant footsteps coming from behind but doesn't speed up or turn around she passes the old pink church
that's what everyone calls it because that's exactly what it is: a church with a bright pepto-bismol
hue and a distinctly southwestern stucco look about it - a place that looks totally out of place on these gray streets of northeast philly
she should have stayed home tonight but putting up with her old man - old enough to be her father
- wasn't something she wanted to do not when he started to grope her and bitch at her when she resisted
she turns her ipod up once the footsteps disappear but nothing works to drown out the other night sounds
...car horns, sirens, a cadillac careening up the street with all the windows rolled down on a twenty-degree night,
a CD blaring a rap song about rape and social injustice...and then there are the two old ladies waiting at the corner for a bus
they're arguing about the 'fuckin' spics' what a place! she thinks even the old bitches are crude!
then she heads into the chinese place at the corner and has a bowl of wonton
then walks three doors down to a pawnshop where she enters a side door and walks up two flights to the apartment
at home she changes into her night clothes and joins her old man sprawled out on a shabby bed
gazing up at the ceiling, she wonders if her baby boy - only a few feet from her - will sleep through the night
her old man, drunk, mumbling, reaches out toward her she bites her lip, turns away, squinting at the faded wallpaper as the el rumbles by
suddenly the baby cries out
shuffling to the crib, she lifts him up, holds him close, their heartbeats caught in some primal synch
'it's time,' she whispers, cradling him, her kiss gently brushing his forehead
'it's time to feed my hungry prince...'
Vernon Waring poetry has appeared in The Writer, The Iconoclast, Alabama School of Fine Arts Quarterly,
Midwestern University Quarterly, New Dimensions, and Anthology as well as on the Prairie Home Companion's Web site.
His light verse has been published in the Saturday Evening Post, Philadelphia Daily News, and WRITE ON!! Poetry Magazette.
His short fiction and poetry have also been featured online in Ascent Aspirations Magazine. He resides in King of Prussia,
Pennsylvania.
Email: Vernon Waring
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