In the City
Taylor Smith

I walk past dim-lit liquor stores and
old shopping carts rusted to the bone,
down alleyways riddled
with outdated cheeseburgers
and cigarette ashes,
nod at my sometimes neighbor
who has built walls of trash bags
around himself
for heat,
jog up the stairs
to my apartment,
stumble over the couch,
grab my new clothes,
hot from the back of the truck
my friend Vinnie drives,
and check the machine
for details about what’s going down tonight
and when.
No messages.