CONCRETE ALLEYS

Hot city. Concrete alleys.

Weeds crawl from cracks near broken glass

and homeless stars.

Black wires above connect buildings

like jungle vines where birds

and small creatures cross the canyon.

Mounds of garbage sit fat with moisture,

ripe with decay.

A back door opens. A fat man

wearing an apron steps out

lighting a cigarette. The smoke lifts,

encircling his head. Thick fingers push

back his hair. The sound of pots and pans

echo from the open door. He gazes to

the end of the alley, looking intently as if

waiting for someone. He puts out the

cigarette and returns inside.

The hum of fans and machines

fills the space.


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