You can’t see from here but
down at street level there are
men with carts selling who-
knows-whatever you want.
They’ve got it in regular and
lite (unleaded if you know the
secret handshake.) And through-
out the back-alleys where the
yellow cat-eyes of the buildings
cannot reach through the smog
are your junkies and rapists and
whores, dancing in the reflection
of those great glass monoliths,
just itching for a piece of that
American pie denied to most,
envied by all, and disdained
for its inadequacy the moment
anyone takes out a healthy bite.
The apples are mealy and wormy
and brown, and the crust doesn’t
flake, it just sogs limp and down.
Below all that the tin is burnt through
by the rust and the heat of this
bubbling melting pot where
the dross has nowhere to go
but up and the rest are left
wanting, gazing up above
with breakneck wonder
at these economic juggernauts;
these idolic, idle behemoths.