In the mustard yellow smoke that floats
along the streets there drifts
a burned and greasy smell through shot-out
windows from frying pans ignored
while on the phone to a neighbor.
I long to turn the burner off,
but it smells like home to them.

By ****** puddles warm with sewer gas
I pass with too much grace—and weave a
dainty two-step down gaping alleyways
beneath clothes
strung out like a lifeline,
sifting murky sunlight
through threadbare cotton.
Old and ugly patterns dangle
from a nylon cord--
cut it and they fall
against the wall and are ***** again.
I shove my hands in my pockets and walk on.