The Wanderlust

The alleyways went up over the dead air,
dirt and mud clinging to the warehouses
while Chevys made jet streams in the air
over St. Antoine. All the warehouse grit
piling on the sidewalks nestled itself in the overgrown brush,
a mattress for the bruised egos once mighty
as the concrete pillars holding I-94 up above my head.

Under the bridge, glass meddles with stones and sand;
with the soles of worn-out shoes; with the feet
of those losing wanderlust. Around the corner,
the streetlights reek of bloodgasoline arteries
spewing fumes over the subtleness
of a fifty-eight-degree-day
in the middle of January.

The crunch settles in; the scraping holds us up
over the dead air.

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