The city requires armor. A multitude of suits I’ve tried
not a one of them will fit. My fingers of flesh and bone are not stilettos.
No shit kickers laced into boots, no steel bulges from the breast
the thigh, the hip, the belly. Not bulletproof, not bullet brazen.
Aggression whips around me in the passing of a car, even the sound
of rubber on asphalt assaults. I want to weep.
Humans are the only beasts can thrive in this grid
this evolutionary plateau directed by painted yellow lines, closed
and shuttered windows. Must I look? There, the furtive spray can art
à la soulless miscreants -an advertisement for pain- an invitation to violence.
Here, the used condom in the alley à la careless John, growing crispy in the sun.
A discarded needle, a single shoe on the side of the road, skinny dogs
tearing at wrappers, and dumpsters stinking of rotting meat.
The City requires armor.
No matter how many times I try it on it will never be my home.