In His Own Image

We keep our post,

just inside the marble entryway of 443,

placing our bets on the ancient ladies.

Two bucks if Beverly Carver sneers at his chapped blue lips.

Five if Ms. Astor laughs in disgust when she sidesteps the vomit.

Benji peeks around the arch and reports back,

pinching his Granny Smith between pointer and thumb—

Yeah, the fucker’s still lyin’ there…blockin’ the whole damn sidewalk…

he’s got his hand out like he’s reachin’ for change… 

I guess old habits die hard.

I know I’ve seen him before,

Rain-dancing for some invisible deity.

Laughing too hard, too often.

Don’t worry about it,

He’s got friends.

Benji swallows his apple core, wipes the juice from his chin.

He sure does—Step right up to see The Traveling Caravan of West Village Freaks.

What’ll it be today, Pierre?

Starvation?

Overdose?

Exposure?

Mmhmm.

It’s my turn to duck around the corner.

He looks—

The fingerprint of his fallen body will forever stain the concrete.

And I watch Mrs. Carver stumble in the same spot every day.

She doesn’t know why.

Can’t remember.

Never will.

—like God. Seconds from Adam’s fingertip.

On the verge of inventing His Magnum Opus,

His most wretched creation.

Tai Campbell is an aspiring artist (writer, poet, photographer) from New York City.

You can follow Tai on Instagram here.