Bina Perino

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

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