Endless rows of tenements, (the forgotten extremities of the hub)
soot-covered & crumbling, down the street old hunch-backed
Puerto Ricans
seated under brown bodega awnings, yawning, further north the
smoke stacks
on the skyline churning & churning, little boys below on
bicycles eating
50¢
popsicles, weaving through traffic, over pot-holes.
& so The Bottomless grows. Each night, it pulls, it
twists; its desire to consume is unprecedented.
In subway cars, on street corners, through glass windows &
walls, in the faces of my friends who now call this place home,
I see its ceaseless workings, I hear its brutal grind.
Tell me: for what was it, again, that we came here, came to this
city
with its whoopee-balls & light-up promises, came expectant,
in our pleated slacks & best shiny shoes?
Was it for these sleepless nights? For $11 whiskey smiles?
For a pair of flying saucer eyes all glazed over & gone?
Jamie Thomson is a writer from Northampton, MA.
