Graffiti City

Graffiti City

Back in graffiti city
where trash drifts against the fences
instead of snow, where the tone
is a gruff wall
as if the skin were concrete
and the bones
were rebar wired together
by a twist of spite.

On the blacktop
of stop and go
for a middle finger
and profanity from a box
of being alone.

Back in the pinball
where I hope I don’t tilt.

Richard Rensberry, The Grumpy Poet

2 thoughts on “Graffiti City

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