Poetry from New Mexico
NIGHT CRAWLER I roam this world on sidewalks littered with images of violence. Maintenance crews work overtime, even on Sundays and Christmas — stout men, crawling on padded knees, scrub concrete with caustic detergent, broad steel-bristled brushes, and elbow grease. The stains remain. My satin slippers darken and fray. Each dawn finds holes worn through at least a dozen pairs — and I am merely one frail princess, attired for skipping down streets of polished gold. …