In the city

In an urban square
where the soil is the cement
and the statues are the trees.
where the faces stare beyond
the horizon.

As kids we would use them as boundaries.
As teenagers we would look through them.
As adults we read the inscriptions like our parents obituaries.

Around a brick corner
there are only stop signs and old folk
where they still shop at bodegas
and use their crutch for elevation
because The Dead Wind is still down there.

The buildings don't have faces
and no one owns the yard in front.
Your room mates don't remember
your name and she doesn't look the same
with your new beard and her dyed hair.

You tried to sound out any name
starting with E
but you ended up just saying "E!".

This is how the alphabet murders.
Letters too close like our home in the city.
Uniquity silenced by dissipating smog
when familiarity is only one word
in one spot.

Communication is limited and timid
since all passengers are on the go.
It's one, decisive ride
where you culturally begin
to clump like mussels
and you're not only a genre
but also plenty of jokes
and we all act like it's fine
but you just said it right to his face
and you never even leave.

leafs are perpetually wet
hanging out by the gutters.