Mad Avenue

Mad Avenue

caught in the mindless rush of 9 a.m. traffic
feet, like herds of cattle, trample the daily roads
lambs to slaughter. destiny? pretentiousness.
someone shut off color. shattered glass. the world went gray.
from human cattle and ugly rooftops rise
clouds of smoke and curling steam
nicotine-rich, to join the gray.
apartment steps of aging wood
groan as though they share this morning’s hangover
under their festive litter of bottle caps and cigarette butts.
doors seem to lean one against another
weary, yawning in the morning gray.
number eight is gathering dust; it has a lovely collection.
last door, second floor, the porch light waits for no one
its eye has been put out.
mis amigas se van
I envy a stable life, a social life
mine is work and class, confusion and uncertainty
and the empty gaps that lie between
like city silence in an emptying apartment