we suck romance out of
a bottle like it is the best soda pop
ever and only sold chilled
from a faceless man
with a dull metallic
cart and a sign that shouts
here today, gone tomorrow.

half a dozen empty bottles
later, we toss them into a Hefty
bag, place them out on the curb
and hide behind closed
curtains, waiting to see who
would come to recycle them

out in the more industrial parts
of bushwick, just when you think
no one is watching, someone can
creak half a wall of window open
from up in his concrete
loft and hit you with a balloon
filled with hot
racial molecules
not even remotely resembling
the elements in your hair
but then again
it is always easier
to label a person
when there is a safe stretch of
blindness in between


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