Young Junkie

Fiercely trembling,
the young junkie
crouched in the shell
of his uncle’s brownstone stoop
at 70th and York.

He looked up at
the iron cast terraces
meticulously lined;
potted flowers,
exotic plants.

His pale skin glowed
in the streetlamp,
his face dampened
in a sheath
of sweat,
breathing shallow,

he remembered
going to church
on Sunday mornings,
listening to Fr. Kelly’s
homilies,
the round brown
eyes of his mother
when she’d sing
to him in
the tub
as a boy.

The young junkie shivered,
closed his eyes
and drifted towards
the light.
His mother’s voice
grew steady,
louder.


Theresa Daly