Street sampling word, pierced on its side...

work zone cones the wickedest witch

cruel-worlds under.

Cab meters left running,

ante upping ante.

Wheatpaste wars boom-blocking,

moonlighting black

gum splotches under years of feet.


Millions of ways of home, trample-trials in this

stink-thick Dutch settlement.

Where faint of hearts get blown in handkerchiefs,

and the court jester plays his head in the face of the fallen.

Where plastic bags fill trees, like women with hair rollers

screaming at children to come inside before nightfall.