The Cities We Name Culture

When standing in the right spot,
the lines of high-rise apartments
blur against glass skyscrapers,
the sun bleeding along edges
until eyes water and shift away.

On certain streets, the pattern of brick
grown from cement becomes hypnotic,
interrupted at even intervals
by the green of block-trimmed shrubs.

The streets have a warmth and smell
distinct at specific times; on one corner
the smell of fresh bread held in check
by the faint sewer stink of afternoon.
Up three blocks, it’s a chaotic blend
of cooked meat, exhaust fumes, rosemary,
with an undercurrent of urine from bums
who gather and break apart
all hours of the day.

The city is a piece of clothing,
a toothbrush, a car.
It starts off as one thing and then
devolves into something else
from the weight of all these people,
the pull of gravity, the corruption of air.
The neat stitches in cotton slowly
come undone, a hole appears just below
the pocket, a stain grabs on and never lets go.
Stiff, white bristles bend and yellow.
The thick, sweet flavor of new upholstery
becomes the layered odor of drive-through food
and a sock lost beneath the passenger seat.

We accept the demise of everything else
but cling to our cities, find beauty
in the angles and stench;
we reach with tongues and give it a name.