How often have I looked down at
The mud-puddle reflections of
The sooty, leprous buildings and
The garbage in the corners of the street?

How often have I felt my palms
Rust-streaked, and put less pressure on
My tired friend the iron rail, and
Mumbled my habitual apology?

How often have I breathed beside
The swirling smog, and watched it dance
Across the sleeping dumpster there
Stealing its dark green, and it's smiling ghost?

And who am I to criticize
The pallet from the fire escape?
When paints and poets rule the world
The bum across the alley will be king.