Looking Underground at a Pool of Sewer and Rain Water on 88th and Lexington

Under my toes, I find the charcoal screwdriver,
rusted on the gray cracks,
rolling like a tumbleweed in papaya warmth.
Up the side street through the city dump,
the street lamps turn on together
synchronized dancers around the hints of nighttime.
Through the subway grates of tired soot,
the excess of yesterday’s rain,
drips off onto tea green mold.
The straggly gray of the garbage man's mop,
a lion’s mane, split ends I turn around my finger,
painted by gold grease which eats up my palm
and all that is left of my arteries.
Dark women with their big pink gums
bump me while passing by.
I look up, as the clouds thicken and take pause.
Easy enough to drown
in the sewer water below,
brown waste to fill my rib cage.
God would never trade
crimson apples for squished pigeon's blood.
Only we could create such a world.