Wishing You Were Here

Killing time in the picturesque
lie of the City.
Pretending to be historic,
but all I hear are the groans of
drunken bums laying sway over
their portion of this hell on stilts.

Smelling the inebriated stench
of urine and puke-stained streets.
Postcards should be sold
with the truth.
Showing beggars standing still
for 25 cents
as millionaires and
designer-fitted hipsters
leave shit from their heels upon
their concrete living room floor.

Perhaps situate the grocery cart pushers
inside half filled condominiums.
Where the residents
go on spending binges as if
high on meth.
Overdosing on million count sheets
and stain-guard carpet,
since the blood that drips
from their insides
has no chance to stay.

I love getting mail.

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