In the 'Boro

This town is graffiti
worn but still visible
not confined to the empty buildings
on the ghost town that is Rt. 130
but on hospitals and doctor's offices

This town is filled with people
too lazy to walk on sidewalks
a human wall of slow moving sludge

This town is abandoned buildings
businesses are chased out
these spaces are used
only as homes for rats and insects

This town is about cut budgets
rising crime
school lock downs and closings

It is poorly designed and built houses
it is the sound of bass at midnight
and car horns at 5:30 am

It is the smell of manure on a Friday night
the taste of desperation
the swell of need



The Garage Door Man's Son

He can barely drive a nail
without hitting his finger
plumbing is like studying algebra:
impossible.

He is the middle son.
The only one who is not a carpenter.
He is the one who wasted his twenties
on trivial junk and created debt.
He never did figure out
what he wants to do with his life.

The walls in his house
are a statement that parallels his life:
unfinished.
His yard, a reflection of his accomplishments:
a sad, sick joke.

He is the garage door man's son.
The one who never followed in his footsteps.
The one who rebelled simply to be different.

His hands are not rough and cracked,
like his father's and brother's.
They do not hold the things they touch:
nails, wood, success, children.
They are empty.

Originally appeared in the chapbook "The Mathematics of Frustration and Loss"