(The Broken Spaces)

Where pigeons hunt for food in festering streets
Amid shantied bungalows where life lies low;
The once-bright houses now all faded, as if to blend with sky in shame.
The cracks, like wrinkles, worn out and gray.

Where pigeons build their nests in broken spaces,
Needles scatter like confetti from a long-forgotten birthday party.
The only fix is that one-time high, the momentary release (relief) of mind.
Denial is a tempest that lifts you up--

Where pigeons fly away from all the shambles,
Height smooths out the grungy faces.
And hope?
Well--hope was once a good idea. Like your last five bucks coursing through a vein.