The city smiles, sloping face
split along staggered streets
lined with tooth-houses,
some in straight, glossy rows—
thick carpet-lined lawns
and the sting of fresh paint;
most are rotting, crooked,
or a little yellow.
Behind waist-high grass
and wild, tangled bushes,
flake-peel paint mildews,
Astroturf porches sodden and
stinking from October to June,
each corner a damp orgy of
Steel Reserve, spiders, and
twice-smoked cigarettes.
Dirt parking lots wedge
between whored-out mansions—
jagged, tight lattices
of Connecticut plates;
cellophane leaf skeletons
clog curb-elbows and gutters,
sticky with dried vomit
and spermicidal lube.
Grease specked pizza boxes
cling to paint-thin iron fences;
third-story balconies groan,
pregnant with tartan couches
and rusted folding chairs,
their hairlines braided
with dead-bulbed strands
of Christmas lights.