In our neighborhood, cars stacked
along the curbs. They melted into asphalt
after the sun sank into backyards.
From a dim garage, a bike crawled—
its wheels turning at the will
of a bloodshot-eyed teenager—
hunting for a bump or smoke,
no street lights to guide him.
dead street lights, skeletons
standing parallel to the girls
who melted into the cars,
drowning with tar-filled lungs.
He pedals on, itching with his
chalk-covered hands at his addiction,
down narrow violent streets in shadow,
lit by cigarettes and cellphones.
Poetry arrangement by Bina Perino