[Alex Pepple]

At the East Side

           — L.A.
          (revised text in blue)


He stumbles from a smoky room
           onto the back street (glare
of fresh graffiti) to resume
           his day, with scant fanfare,
when sharp stilettos—thick perfume,

black fishnet stockings, long dark hair—
           strut by. And suddenly,
itches like spider-leg strokes flare
           his nostrils out. Then he
quivers taut, gulps lungfuls of air—

eyes shut tight, head back—to explode
           out one raspy achoo
that dapples dust over the road;
           he tramps and drags a shoe.
“Change, miss?” he asks, hand out, like owed.

Half-seated on a T-Bird’s hood,
           He’s down, with cheer, to show
her in—the muscled arms tattooed.
           He revs his ride as it rumbles low . . .
They’re off, smoke gobbling air like food.

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~~~Second revision ~~~

At the East Side

           — L.A.
          (revised text in blue)

He stumbles from a smoky room
           onto the back street (flair
of fresh graffiti) to resume
           his day, with scant fanfare,
when some high-heeled girl—thick perfume,

black fishnet stockings, long dark hair—
           struts by. And suddenly,
itches like spider-leg strokes flare
           his nostrils out. Then he
quivers taut, gulps lungfuls of air—

eyes shut tight, head back—to explode
           out one raspy achoo
that freckles dark the dusty road;
           he tramps and drags a shoe.
“Change, ma’am?” he asks, hand out, like owed.

Half-seated on a T-Bird’s hood,
           a man awaits to show
her in—arm offered, all tattooed.
           It’s revved; it rumbles low . . .
They’re off, smoke gobbling air like food.

------------------------------------------------------

~~~First revision ~~~

At the East Side

      — L.A.


He steps out from a smoky room
      onto the back street (glare
of fresh graffiti) to resume
      his daily bland fanfare,
when some high-heeled girl—thick perfume,

black fishnet stockings, long dark hair—
      struts by. And suddenly,
itches like spider-leg strokes flare
      his nostrils wide. Then he
quivers taut, gulps lungfuls of air—

eyes shut tight, head back—to explode
      out one raspy achoo
that bespeckles the dusty road;
      he tramps and drags a shoe.
“Change, ma’am?” he motions, his pace slowed.

Ahead, reclined on a T-Bird’s hood,
      a man awaits to show
her in—arm offered, all tattooed.
      Foot gas-heavy, the beau
is off, smoke devouring air like food.