Who if scratched would reveal a person

Was leaning against the wall

by a subterranean newsstand

When someone palmed him

A quick lot of money

And flung all available from the open rack

(random, flying headlines covering an infirm retreat).

‘It was strange,’ said the newsboy,

Who’d walked away for a moment.

‘I came back, they were gone.’

The policeman nodded: ‘See anyone?’

15 years old and standing off to the side:

one hand balled into a fist,

boil pocks down his legs,

dirty shirt, wild makeup, darting eyes.

---

Daniel Pendergrass grew up in rural North Alabama. After working as a journalist, he spent the next two years living on an outer island of Micronesia. His poems have been placed with Van Gogh's Ear and The Chiron Review, among other publications. He currently lives in the Middle East.