Escaping the City

I could write a thousand stories of the keys I've traded in

and the doors I've walked through --

I've lived among the coldest apartments in Buffalo

and the tiniest rooms in London,

But the worst place I ever called home

was on 122nd street

carelessly carved between Broadway 

and Amsterdam 

in an apartment abandoned

above a hoarder

who did not sleep

and smelled of sour urine,

sticking to the deepest fabrics

like shit smeared across the lead-paint walls.

The Harlem streets could not quiet 

his afternoon pornos

or midnight metal music.

There was no escape.

Even the roaches wanted to run;

seeking refuge in the cracks of the floorboards,

creeping in at night and

spreading fear faster than faith.