time out

behind the drugstore
where i grew up
there was always
a man or two, and
on occasion a woman,
half dressed,
sleeping in the brush
with an empty bottle
of gin, or rum, not
far from their open
and still curled
hands. sometimes
there would be a
used syringe nearby,
and their pale arms
would still be strapped
tight with a belt,
or rope, and despite
it being twelve noon
with the sun high
and hot above us,
they slept as if in
the finest of beds,
soundly and without
a trace of discomfort.
but it was where
we played stickball,
with a strike zone
painted on the wall,
and so we did,
and when the ball struck
the wall, or the bat,
and with our chatter
becoming louder
they would awaken.
we'd call time out,
and stop to watch them
rise, slowly, as if
from the dead, then
stagger off to whatever
worlds they came from.