In this city,
There are children
They live in apartment complexes
Crammed together smelling
Body odor, Chinese food, laundry detergent,
Urban rats seek out dead cats
In the storm drains
In this city,
There are children
And they leave little plastic tricycles
Face-planted on the soggy lawn
In front of sliding glass doors
Where their mothers light up
And watch them
Eyes over the crossword puzzle
Feet in slippers
In this city,
I am living with a love story
It is in my back pocket,
And I have a dream
It is in my front pocket
In this city,
Named Della Marta
Lower Michigan
I am in a wool blazer buttoned
Cherry red sunglasses with black lenses
Marked with greasy fingerprints
High tops with duct tape holding
One sole down
And a gaping hole in each knee
Exposing right where I forgot to
Shave
In this city
I know we do not know much
We are urban decay in a cornfield backdrop
Children with cigarettes dangling from smirks
Old women with lunacy pinned to their sleeve
And little plastic tricycles
Face-planted on our soggy lawns
As our mothers call to us
Behind cigarette smoke
To come in for some
Good old-fashioned
Mexican takeout.