I.
Beyond the plowed zone, where signs
shout resurrection, Grand Street turns into treeless
stucco blocks, homes of asphalt clapboard,
metal doors; walls tattooed with gang spoor. Nothing
trickles down here but rain. Billboard
starlets sell hope, their paper smiles hugely
empty. Along the exits, old cars pile like rusted bones:
a Fairlane with cinderblock wheels and no voice,
an eyeless Bug with flattened roof.
It is not apathy—paralysis comes in cans
and bottles; the cloned yearnings that leach
character leave a flavorless day.
The fragile things have fled—glass, children,
dreams. Windows are cardboard, metal, wood;
no vision, no exit. Scabrous iron mesh gate—
rusting spider web with no prey. Victims gone,
the hunters hunt each other. Tight faces,
whispered plans, broken needles in the gutter.
Conspiracy of generations laid bare, unseen;
a city diminished by pain unacknowledged.
The cripple feigns health; the leprosy proceeds.

II.
Evening slides in on the backs of thunderheads.
Sunset fingers a doorway split by anger, bruised
and sagging. A pile of clothes wakes, rises,
called by neon hieroglyphs and the smell of bread.
Sifting through garbage, the wind finds nothing;
the dogs take all. News serves to stuff cracks;
what serves to heal? Like moths,
survivors hurl themselves at night,
seeking ecstasy in glowing moments,
cupping extruded joy to their lips.
Effervescent amber seduces the tongue,
gently steals the future, rolling her trick
into the nearest doorway. Burning tires
fill the air with toxins of rage. Ill-marked
detours are ignored by leaden
travelers who left the freeway hours—
no, years—ago. Which ramp toward escape?
The spill that stains this place is moving,
sending poison rivulets into finer neighborhoods.
Containment impossible; some want
to bomb it into parking lots,
flattening roaches and flowers. Pave it over.

III.
A shoebox house: blowsy hydrangeas
fading on a balding lawn, blankets
on dusty windows, a coat of blue paint
against despair. Broken bottles
like empty mouths press into the fence.
Along the frayed windowsills, dead leaves
trace their memoirs. This house, this block
is Available from a distant keeper,
selling like thrift store junk for a pittance.
Upper windows leak dirty rain like runny mascara.
A stick-figure tenant with a dried-apple face,
khaki pants, stained shirt, watches the afternoon
blister the tavern sign across the road.
A black cat studies dead flies on the sidewalk
as an ivory chemise tumbles the block; hugs
a hydrant. The corner lot is a brick pile,
construction halted until a reason can be found.
An old woman in a dirt-colored coat stops
at the tavern for a lottery ticket. In her mind
she is young, smooth as a cigarette ad, though
her softness has eroded in the acid-etched streets.