what happens when the doors lock
and the lights turn out --is this
progress or am I lazing about
is every town a pile of trash
or just this one --does everyone
wake up hungry and tired or just
this one --no wonder, nothing
amazing is ever going to happen
here, even poems about this mess
are just shit --from the biggest
city in the world to the smelliest
town is but a hop, a scotch, and a
beer --no one here, nothing don't,
never swore I wouldn't hate every
inch of it, and oh yes, say indeed
I certainly do --what a move, and
all for what --a paycheck --a
feeling a sentiment of not having
given up, making one's own way
this is the nice place, is it --
thank you very much
how are you --a phrase no one remembers, even since
the bleak hungry Saturday when we picked up and
disappeared from our home, pushed out by the smell
of paint and dust and gyp --loud work wouldn't let us
sleep, and we forgot what it means to relax --slow day,
every day is a slow day that keeps us wound up
tighter than a pin in a spring cushion --what'd we
ever do to make this possible --we're living in a
plaster oasis, paying bills just to keep the courtyard
green --we don't know each other's names so we just
stare, hoping for a name-tag or some drunken mumbled
greeting to ask we always lie to answer
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