This article was published in Scientific American’s former blog network and reflects the views of the author, not necessarily those of Scientific American
This post is part of a collaborative narrative series composed of my writing and Chris Arnade's photos exploring issues of addiction, poverty, prostitution and urban anthropology in Hunts Point, Bronx. For more on the series, look here.
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Drug Table: Hunts Point, Bronx. Courtesy of Chris Arnade.
Out of detox
Weighed down
By bags of clothes and a sensation
To run:
He cannot be seen. But she needs
Diesel, two bags.
He is clean,
Clean suburban husband
Wannabe left seat-tapping in
A mini-van. He has conquered and
This is her fault, her and her
Medusa'ed habit:
"Shit, I saw a white
Van and almost zombie-walked
Into a bust. Fuck, it's raining
So Jose ain't at his corner
Because he's a pussy,"
She said,
Who then, for Buddha Bless?
She wanders.
He waits clean, proper until
Mania -- there, on the sidewalk,
The dealer.
"Goddammit she's walking
The wrong way.
God fucking dammit."
His rage is a thumping thing
Against the seat
Matching her return
Crescendo of fury
Needles--
"I bumped into
My dope fairy." Bought
Four bags instead
Of two.
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More Hunts Point Addiction Writing
Chris Arnade's Photos and his Facebook feed
