when times are tough

Detroit. My Home Town

They’ve boarded up Detroit. Painted all the windows black. Put the cat in the basement. A. J. Foyd has been missing for years. There’s going to be a tea party. You bring the pot. I’ll bring the saucers.

No rest for the wretched. You can hear them crying. On the sidewalk. Stained with red from that kid who fell in love. With a Buick. Onto a broken bottle of Triple X. Blood shot out of his leg. Like air from a flat.

Every day. At noon. The sulphur mills sigh. Smells like the city farted. Causing the junkies to jump. Out of their hotel skins. All you hear. All afternoon. Is a series of splats.  It ain’t acid. But when times are tough. You settle for what you can get.

Everyone wants to take credit. For the lower costs. Of reclamations. The churches are abandoned. The soup kitchens are closing. The hospital emergency rooms are empty. There are so many bodies on the asphalt. Recent jumpers. Or recently stoned.