the kind that singes like a dying cigarette.
at the end of the block
in a city that seems to have eyes in the back of
hard head. It has plans for you—
Did you ever think that
you, that effervescent infectious
set of arms and legs, those
legs that go
could be here? In a back alley,
where rats crawl
and sirens slowly drown your voice.
Hush without pity, touch gently
the wall, another brick in
only the rats escape with
a snitch and a rotten crumb
of gouda that
your neighbor no longer wanted.
There is no succor.