Bleecker couldn’t be a bleaker street today:
rainy, raw, cold and empty, sidewalks
splattered everywhere with pale blotches of gum
past the age of bubble-blowing, spat out
in moments of distraction or disgust.
This bubblegum graveyard must be our street.
This is where you steer us anyway, this recessed
doorway two doors in. A funny place
to taste a square of Listerine, I think.
But who am I to argue with your tongue?
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