DRUGS Poem: Shit from Shinola, by Jamie Albert

every other day we’d ride downtown on the EL
back when you could still hop turn-styles
even in the winter; especially in the winter
we’d put on our coats and head out to shop the bakery dumpsters for dinner
there was this one deli where yuppies from different buildings met from seven to seven each day
on the edge of the loop and the gold coast neighborhood
they baked gourmet baguettes and scones and every kind of bread you could imagine
– a lot of these joints now compact their trash,
even back then some would lock their dumpsters
in a world that teaches greed, even their trash is somehow sacred…
however, this particular bakery would toss the extras out every night;
which usually consisted of hefty bags with pounds of good meal, untouched and separated from the store’s trash bin bags full of perfectly good half eaten sandwiches
we’d bring home sometimes ten or more pounds of fresh gourmet baked breads, sweet confections, scones and pastries
and the house of 13 to 20 of us would live on that
the slum lord threw us out when he got sick of the health department on his ass

and the clueless jump out boys raiding us over and over
never finding a thing
except, perhaps,
an empty syringe – for all the dope was in our arms by nightfall
nothing ever lasts for any of us,
I suppose
the young poor still manage to navigate across the great divide and gravitate towards each other

and the old poor get too old to move and die alone

we don’t know our shit from shinola and neither do they

and I guess it’s for the best
the phone still rings and the old new replaces the new old
and flies – gnats – cipher nectar from our dreams
in a world of cages and emotionally parasitic lives
we still reach into our pockets hoping to find that laundered, crumpled 5 dollar bill with the magical face on it that will hold us on gasoline for just one more day

a crazy hope; penny side up
I miss the scones.