The 2nd Circle of Hell's Kitchen

This isn’t a neighborhood,

this is the center of the universe;

the oiled napkins and German cockroaches,

an escaped ostrich and the dealer pharmacist

spinning you inches from my face

in garbage wind and heat waves.

Blinded by whipped gravel and diamonds

in the pavement, our high life breaks

under scraped skies onto paper plates.

Cruelty can be innocent as opening

an orange with your teeth and always

taking the roundest grape for yourself.

You and I are flushed

down with sovereign rat tails

burnt by the sun. Floating

in the pothole fumes, a pigeon

dove in the center of the universe

that frees no one from wanting

a lust like ours.

Getting closer, only almost.