The acrid fumes of the Twin Aire plumes seep through the cracks and drafts through the rooms of the cesspool I am calling my home. On the gas bill is spent, as much as the rent and I still have to sleep with my clothes on. Feral cats call, on the mice in the hall that accompany all the bats in the attic. Each morning I rise to the howling cries of somebody’s dog or another. In nearly every home, a family will own a pit bull or a Rottweiler. They rip into the trash and drag their ass after taking a crap on my grass. Fountain Square flowers are cars with flat tires that line the side of the road. If the engines are gone they sit idle on the lawn in the back yards of all of my neighbors. For those that may run, backfire like a gun or are desperately missing their muffler. If the neighbors don’t drive, their ride arrives to lay on their horn in the morning. On many a porch, is many a couch and many an appliance a landmark. Like monuments from war, a dead Kenmore joins an Amana and Serta. The dirty back alley welcomes a festive rally, of transients guzzling warm brew. And the kids next door, I believe there are four scream like they’re coming unglued. At times there will creep a thief while I sleep to lift a hose or a ladder. The mower is chained to the grill that is chained to the bench that is chained to the gutter. In this squalor I dwell, low income hell, till the lease I signed expires, Or the city finds fit to light a match and set it all on fire.
Posted on: Sat, 07 Sep 2013 03:27:40 +0000
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015