Faith, hope and love. Hope is the hardest, sometimes.

To be precise, it’s hard every morning,

when I get on the el and see my neighbor

slumped over. The other day, I found a seat,

took out my book to read—and then I saw him.

A kid, maybe fifteen; he looked like me

when I was his age. Dirty blond hair, round face,

acne. He stared at me, except his eyes

were closed. His mouth was opened wide, too wide,

as if he couldn’t get enough air in.

I’m used to seeing addicts—those at the start,

in business clothes, who nod off on their way

to work; they’ll drop their phone, which startles them

awake. They dip, they drop their phone again,

again. New addicts are always the saddest ones.

I didn’t think I’d ever see a kid, though.

I hadn’t prepared myself for that.

He was wrapped in a blanket, feverish, dreaming adult

dreams of terror, of hopelessness. God knows

what went through that boy’s head as he sucked air.

—

Lord, even those who do not call on you,

they look for you these days. They know, they see

plainly that our best efforts are disaster,

something like hell. Lord, may our sighs hasten

to you. May every breath breathed by your children

be Abba, Father—save us now. Bring Death.

Slay him, that we may glory in his dying.   

Eric Krewson is a writer and musician based in Philadelphia, PA. He leads the band The Chairman Dances. Eric’s recent poems have appeared in Channel, Clayjar Review, and Ekstasis. You can find him on Instagram here.