the daughter i never had

early sunday morning, the
occasional car, and no one
sees her. she's
dancing on a traffic bump, flutters
her arms, floats down her
private sky. "hey," i say,
a pop tune spinning my
brain, "hey are you al-
right?" she doesn't
see me. singing.
teenage dancer, pocked
skin, poetry of the needle
scrambling her tongue. someone
stops. "you're whacked on drugs,"
he yells, "i'm callin the cops," and
she picks up her pack, waltzes
down the street. "i called 911,"
he says. "junkie," i say, and he
smirks, he doesn't see me,
"well she's somebody's daughter," he says,
and in 3 minutes the cops
pull up, and in 10 minutes
the streets are clear, sometimes
i wish i was stoned, but
not today, on a clear blue sunday
morning, hush my baby.

© Robert Martens