Somewhere out there, lies the city.
Bare-breasted. Awaiting my return.
The city of abandoned nights,
of six-year-olds falling through rusted fire escapes,
of welfare hotels in facades of diseased stone;
the city of grit, wood, and bone.
I step out of a foul-smelling Greyhound bus
into the mouth of a moistened dawn,
spraying its colors on cardboard "condos"
on the sidewalk.
Here I stroll, among the walking dead,
among the criminalized and displaced,
the sun of the desert our only roof,
the song of our wails,
the wails of our song,
thundering against the sides of this
city of angels
so far removed from heaven.