day NINETY NINE

little girl lost junkie america

we saw her

stumbling along union square

pulling her hair in and out of a ponytail

drunk, my wife said

probably on meth, i added

then she was in our train on 14^th street

shouting at a group of latinos on the platform

fucking arabs! she said

go back to your country!

trump’s going to send you all back!

when she realized they weren’t arab

she started shouting

fucking spics!

trump’s coming for you!

the people on the platform were trying

to hold one of the girls back from coming on the train at her

she was crying and shouting

don’t you disrespect my people!

this is america in 2017

this has always been america

and will probably always be america

when the train doors closed the meth-head

turned to all of us

don’t you judge me, she said

pulling her hair in and out of that ponytail

you don’t know what i’ve been through

but still you didn’t have to say that

one black lady said

you didn’t have to say his name

and by canal street meth-head was fighting with her too

calling her a nigger and telling her to go back to africa

that greasy hair in and out of that ponytail

threatening to strangle the woman

the next time they saw each other

when we pulled away from the station

she prowled around the train car like a caged animal

that’s right, she said,

you don’t know who you’re fucking with

face red and cracked

that hair in and out in and out in and out

like my wife and i had seen her back in union square

another drunk

another meth-head

another vile racist

little lost girl junkie america

living on the streets

while the president plays golf in his winter mansion

on the taxpayer’s dime

cutting social welfare programs

and blowing up iraqi cities

over a tepid diet pepsi and an overcooked streak

little lost girl junkie america

in her land full of plenty of scapegoats

y’all don’t know what i’ve been though, she spat

then she turned and smacked her head

against the train doors

over and over and over again

SMACK….SMACK….SMACK….

until she stopped like a dazed prize-fighter

a trickle of blood on her forehead

and slid all the way down to the train car floor

knocked out loaded on her ripped duffle bag

one hand inside a pocket, searching for something

as the q train left the subway tunnel

and manhattan burned bright behind us on  the bridge

a gilded palace

a rich man’s playground

just another american prison

for all the good people to call their home

or rip each other the shreds

--John Grochalski