Bryn Mawr. Slapstick poverty.
Brittle cords of wicker baskets
Filled with crumbs.
Illiterate methadone dependence.
Icy menthol dependence.
Rotgut fermentation of old hopes
Drips across the street, dissolves
Slowly in the sunlight.
The sunlight piecing through El tracks
Adorning swimming dust particles with
Gutter halos.
The angels, they sing in torn plastic shopping bags.
They weep under broken soaking couches in dumpsters.
Self-imposed paralysis dependence.
Empty hand apology dependence.
The angels mutter to themselves and shake their heads.
They offer themselves in the stoops of closed flower shops.
Crushed ambition and idealistic bullshit do not strong fertilizers make.
Rolling stories all denouement.
Black teeth. Missing teeth.
The alleys littered with broken mirrors
That can’t reflect light no matter how high the sun.
Bryn Mawr, where wishes are in dog years
And even the fleas are starving.
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