The City

It’s your heaven
It’s your hell
It’s your blue tears
Turned a shade of

It’s your birthright
Bath water
It’s your afterbirth

It’s your
Traveling circus
With rhinestones
Cut into the eyes

It’s your discretion
Or lack of

It’s 2 bridges
That don’t

It’s your
Passport without
A pass

It’s a dog run
Where everyone
Marks their territory

It’s recycled stories
And recycled lives
Sifted and resold in
Thrift stores and
Rest homes and
Single room hotels

It’s fog trapped
And stifled in

It’s imported jars of
Tails, eyes, noses,
Tongues and umbilical
Cords pickled, preserved
And pitted against itself

It’s a punch press
Postcard slipping
Inside oily microfiche

It’s the silent
Vendetta humming
In your pockets

Before they
Are picked

It’s the city

(C) 2016 Tony Robles


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