A scent wafts by
Humid and warm
Late on a Sunday dusk
Congealing with the certainty
Of things past.
A childhood, a grandmotherly bosom
And the naïve belief in unconditional love;
You shoo them like flies
And walk on, cutting the space
In front of you like wads of butter
That quickly heal and fill in your void.
The brick tilts its head sideways
And musters some pity for you
Reluctantly, fearing its waste.
A cat spreads its thighs
On a window sill
In a domesticated Philadelphian retort
To the Red Light District.
A black iron gate,
Behind fake-candlelit windowpanes.
And I fear to repeat myself:
the same words, same nausea,
same silence, and the same
warm humid scent wafting by…