the city worth its concrete.
The girl wakes up with eucalyptus and gin under her nose.
WHERE EVER SHE IS IN THE WORLD, SHE IS IN A SPACE SHE MOSTLY KNOWS NOTHING ABOUT.
“WHERE EVER-” THERE IS CONCRETE BEATEN AGAINST COCONUT.
(YOU DON’T HAVE TO WONDER WHERE THE AIR GETS ITS MOISTURE.)
and herbs.
Men open up peppers with the same kind of palms that have built the unyielding road to let you smell and dip your pinky in, to put a seed on your tongue at the market.
She fits five of the peppers into her pocket. They sweat onto her pinstripe pants.
She wants to spend more time in these kinds of hands that welcome; that gift you.
She funds herself in gluttony under the meaty air, admiring the work the people do in the streets.
In the unsuspected way every city is worth its concrete,
Every day I wAke up a privileged black American, with the smell of aloe and gin on me.
I am always following the dirt into what most of my freedom is.
Guided by the hills into lofty spaces to echo my senses, I am troublingly thankful for what my dollar leaves me leftover.
