This town hits you like a million ash burning cinder block ciggerettes  scars

I miss the blacks in the alley ways

drunk with guitars

scaring little girls

singing into the night "I'm down wit that, I'm down"

So low.

and its sunday, rainy or maybe humidity

rounding east coast corners and time

my grandfather was a slave, a hero, a migrant

shitting in the same hole as a dozen others 

lazy scared suburbs stretch the truth

but steam holes hiss

quietly into the night

we know we know