Spring 2012, Volume 12

Poetry by David Campos

I Work Delivering Medication

The smog doesn’t care about the integrity of my lungs.
The obligation to work the hours of the day

behind the constant rumble of exhaust pipes,
either rattling rusty pipes or chromed surfaces like mirrors,

works its way up my esophagus
and I pop another Tums into my mouth.

I take bus 38 to work and walk a mile to the stop
to stretch out my legs and the pinched nerve

the doctor says I probably got from sitting all day
driving from house to house delivering medication.

The pinched nerve shoots pain down my right leg
and I wince before I continue on to the bus stop.

There are roses along the front lawns of houses down Barstow.
There are pink and red ones spreading their petals

up and out toward the rising sun.
Only if work was as easy as being a rose,

just sitting there, planted, enjoying the light,
a breeze and a good rain.

I walk along the sidewalk as the cracks beneath my feet
open their mouths to swallow any prayer left on my lips.




BIO: David Campos’ previous publications include The American Poetry Review,
The Packinghouse Review and In The Grove among others.