by Richard Spilman

She had known him half her life,
but not very well,
not like friends.

And that night she went with him to a club,
but not really with him,
with him and their posse;

and there they talked and touched, even kissed,
but it didn’t mean anything,
just that she was having fun.

He drove her home but she didn’t invite him;
he just came in,
and she didn’t send him away.

He kissed her and she laughed it off
and pushed him away,
but not hard;

then he threw her down and raped her,
and she said no, no, no —
but she didn’t scream.

When he was done, she made him leave
and started running a bath
even before the door shut.

Next day, late, he called to apologize,
said it wasn’t like him
and she promised not to tell.

She felt better, glad it was over,
though her hands trembled
as she folded the phone.

Later she called a hairdresser,
saying she wanted it short,
but didn’t keep the appointment.

A man she liked had tickets to a concert.
She told him she’d love to
but couldn’t make herself go.

Instead she sat by the koi pond in the park,
watching streaks of gold
mouth the surface of the water.

by Richard Spilman

They turn circles in the strip mall
parking lot like the undead
in a zombie movie or huddle
under a decorative tree on an island
of grass, cold in long-sleeved shirts
despite the noonday New Mexico heat.

Some stop to interrogate shattered bottles
or their own shadows, turning round
and round as if they hoped to escape
the darkness their bodies cast.
One sleeps curled against the curb;
another rocks, hands on head, weeping.

A man with wind-braided hair, eyes
grown shrewd, edges toward the line
at the Burger King drive through,
drawn perhaps by the hip hop
from a yellow Corvette, or the kids
dangling out the widows of a van.

It’s guerilla begging, hit and run
back to the lot, clutching a bill or two,
while timid friends wait the results.
His wheedling like a mosquito’s keen
worries the ear of a cop pacing
among the cholla on the other side.

So here they come, cop and manager —
a young guy already bald, crabbed
as the trees in this desert waste.
“Damn you . . . !” aiming his finger
like a pistol, and the beggar backs
to a curb beyond the property line.

The cop follows, friendly enough,
pats the man’s back.  Under the tree
a woman cries Pishuni, soul-stealer.
She’s maybe thirty, looks fifty — dead
eyes and hollow cheeks like the farm
wives in Walker Evans’ photographs.

A squad car arrives and they cuff
the man, then the woman for good
measure.  She chants curses like a nun
at a protest rally.  The others flee
pushing carts, dragging garbage bags,
to the safety of a strip mall church.

The cop returns to his cigarette
and the manager to his kitchen,
and the refugees drift back
with bags and carts to the sad shade
of that stunted tree and a voice
calling, “May I take your order?”

by Keith Reid

Last time I saw him
He was a tall skinny dude
Snakeskin boots and a real attitude
Forty years later
He’s a bald fat guy
Sandals, shorts and an old tie-dye
But he’s still got a sparkle in his eye
And he’s still got a spring in his step
He may’ve got older
But he ain’t dead yet
Memories fade
But you never forget
I may be old
But I ain’t dead yet

Last time I saw him
He blew up a storm
Man on the bandstand played a mean horn
Forty years later
The music has changed
We talk now of pensions and coming old age
But he’s still got the rage
As he plays the late set
He may’ve got older
But he ain’t dead yet
Memories fade
But you never forget
I may be old
But I ain’t dead yet

by Keith Reid

They feed your head with lies
On planet hunger
No-one heeds the babies’ cries
On planet hunger
It’s always filth and flies
On planet hunger
You won’t believe your eyes
On planet hunger

Third world problems
Don’t fret
We’ll give ’em some money
You bet
They’re gonna wind up
Deep in debt
We make the rules
Don’t forget

They feed your head with lies
On planet hunger
No-one heeds the babies cries
On planet hunger
It’s only filth and flies
On planet hunger
You won’t believe your eyes
On planet hunger

We don’t have to
Be nice
We don’t have to
Think twice
Let them make
The sacrifice
We’ll pay them off
With a bag of rice

The nations on the rise
On planet hunger
They’ve got a big surprise
On planet hunger
They’ll cut you down to size
On planet hunger
They’re sharpening the knives
On planet hunger