Slums Are Okay

Stick your hand out when

we run across the alleyway

and you'll see it's the same wind

passing through your fingers 

that you brag about 

when you vacation in California.


I'd say your blush looks better

next to these broken bottles 

and tattered mattresses than 

in those pictures I saw from

when you went skiing with your cousins. 

That night when we walked out

of the concert onto wet streets --

when the taxi passed too close to the curb

and baptized us rainy avenue style--

and your hair got frizzed; and your blouse

got ruined; and you cried because

that homeless guy kept staring at you

with his dead eyes and vinegar stench,

I dare say, darling, you've never looked

more alive.

The End

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