An electric light show, all fit with jagged jays
and ripping zees, and the low, rumbling response
can be caught from our roof; we forget we’re displaced
these times: just Texas boys, drowning in nonchalance.
The insomniac city can bring bright-like days.
But this is night, a storm in the dark is ensconced.
Let’s curse all the world, “screw Umbria! Fuck Provence!
In Harlem we reside, it’s not a city phase…”
The rain washes away our silly fantasy,
and we do throw up our hands in defense, defeat,
whatever. Soberly, we all think ‘that’s not me.’
In honesty, what city with home can compete?