Winter has steadily come,
And I'm not sure I can convey
How readily glum
The frost singed air
Feels as it sticks in my throat.
I might as well,
I might as well.
A pig pulled a
U-turn to warn me
Of the ghetto youths
Roaming the neighborhood,
He said to put my phone away
And be on guard,
This area is dangerous, you know,
How long have you lived here,
How long have you been alive?
My knuckles are stiff
And my toes need stretching,
And my mind keeps retching
From the smell
Of rotting leaves
Mixed with deferred dreams.
In this section of town
Named for Hughes,
I perceive the blues
He was wont
To sing,
I breathe the fluid
Inherent in the slums,
And think on why
The oil shines in
The gutter,
Why it's working in our blood,
But it's not the same as love
Why vagrants mutter
And Hope dissolves
Once the glitter of
The campaign wears off,
Left to sparkle in the dirt
With the cast-off gloves
And chunks of weave.
Oppression in the guise
Of freedom stresses
My beliefs,
And it's all I can do
To take solace in the relief
Of taking my seat on the
Bus I've been waiting for
That will drive me
Towards a different lie
And a less realistic
Metaphor;
Cleveland Park
And its expensive stores.