Waiting for You

Waiting for You
by Dean Smith
Gritty red brick row house
outskirts of Baltimore
circa the second coming,
I’ll look through the stained glass between us
while my victrola scratches “Exile on Main Street.”
Saturday morning around my way
children tear down the alley,
a lewd cacophony smeared
with a mix of dirt, ice cream.
Mamas spend the day in curlers
watching Bowling for Dollars.
Obsolete papas scrape mustard
from their backfins, over cases
of National Bohemian.
Working the night shift on a loading dock
with a forklift full of broken hearts,
space on my arm for a flamingo tattoo,
I’ll wait until you grace these marble steps.