And the night bus was late and it took a different route.
It passed the buildings, barrios and fears of my childhood. The banks, neatly groomed. The fancy buildings where most of the people I once knew live. There the sexless book club where I used to wonder about the knight B4.
I know there are walkways connecting the blocks where thousands of people are now asleep or lovingly kissing or exchanging ****** favours for small change in the under ground cellar boxes. Or people locked up in prison for no reason at all. Or people up at night wishing upon stars that they cannot reach.
The bus takes another turn.
There are garbage among the dillapidated parking lots.
I see my neighbourhood.  I can smell my neighbourhood. The despair, the hunger.
It scares me to write about it.
Perhaps you dwell somewhere here, but it is not likely.
I can't find you here.
We have so little time
To be born in the riot ,
And it is the riot,
What happens in the riot,
That decides what matters.