Sarah Wolfe

 

Bad Poet of the Bodega as a Self-Portrait

Not on your shelf but the locals live off my raw milk.
First stop after prison,
there’s always some dark corner where you’re forgiven.
a Shelter during the snowstorm at 2 am.
Walls contain equal space for your dreams and your loss.
Hold my breath as you hold your penny.
An overnight millionaire from that scratch-off?
That’s ok next time, life’s a toss.
Have a Black and White cookie instead, next aisle,
first stop.
Home to your worst craving and your medicine,
count on me for nicotine and Neosporin®.
Saints on glass candles but not behind the counter,
rainbow rows make you wanna spend your last dollar.
But on solemn mornings your pockets turn empty,
Black with two sugars on me.
Register hums the pining’s of my city.
Publishers blink at me, afraid of the ‘lil shop at the end of Griffith Street?
Stocked shelves serve the block, not the scholar.
Art is taste and mine is often delectably improper.
Sunday pilgrimage for an egg ‘n’ cheese is my religion 
in my walls we’ve got loose hair and nocturnal rhythm
my words are dancing ghosts that haunt ‘em
pens are the same as brooms in the coven
What if we all took the time to sing to our neighbors?
Would the world be one step closer to our Creator?
New face outside, painted with that curious stare.
Looks awful cold out there.
Got something for that cough.
That’s ok, something to sleep on.
Breakfast tomorrow, 7 a.m. Half off.

 

Sarah Wolfe’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in publications including Cathexis Northwest Press, Wingless Dreamer, and Winamop. You can often find her out and about Jersey City in parks, coffee shops, yoga studios, local restaurants, or in a really good book.