Punk Island

Swimming through cold water,

With your clothing on.

To a deserted island,

Where only the homeless stay.

Train tracks nearby.

The whistle of the train.

We count the train cars as they pass.

I see my reflection in the murky water.

I feel the cool water in my shoes.

I made it.

Though this place isn't much better,

Then where I came from.

With its abandon mattresses.

Empty beer cans, and cigarette butts.

"Punk Island" many call it.

It's where the underaged kids go to party,

And hang out on a Saturday night in the summer.

It's where bums drink 40’s of cheap beer,

And talk to themselves during the weekdays.

You can get there by crossing the railroad tracks.

Sometimes police shine their flashlights

over the tracks to look for lost teenagers.

It's this place mainly known about by punk rock kids,

And alcoholic homeless city dwellers.

As a kid, it's a fun place to hang out,

Away from adults where drugs and booze are plenty.

As an adult, it is an island of broken dreams,

Glass shards and Hepatitis B.

Used Heroin Needles scatter the landscape of this small island in the city.

The railroad tracks become harder to walk with age,

And the river below moves faster and without pause.

Sometimes people fall and drown,

And their bodies are found by joggers along the river washed up in the rocks.

It’s where the rejects and drug addicts of society end up,

When their life is in shambles,

And they have nowhere else to go.

No jobs, and broken families left behind,

Due to drug addiction.

It becomes a dark place with little light or hope for adults.

Yet, this same place is viewed much differently by youth.

*

This poem is featured in the poetry collection "Passing Skeletons."

Available now on Amazon!

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