The next thing he knows he's on the ground, 67th and Cottage Grove,

looking up at a black sky, a waning moon,

a city block of bricks, boarded windows, and hoplessness.

His pants are wet and it isn't raining.

He raises his head and groans.

Under the nasueating glow of an amber streetlight

he sees blood, a lot of it, coming from the inside of his thigh,

and it's coming in arcs.

He can pass out or hit nine-one-one.

The next time he opens his eyes he sees the green tile walls

and focused light of an E.R.; and faces,

doctors' and nurses' faces, all too concerned, surrounding him.

Fuck, he says, or thinks, he doesn't know which,

this is most definitely not good.