Laughter spills out where the city breathes loud

Laughter spills out where the city breathes loud,

a milk crate serves as a table, a throne,

a makeshift solution, like art from a crowd,

where cracks in our lives are stitched into bone.

People gather around, fingers dance with the cups,

sharing a moment, their stories collide.

And I’m swept up in the chaos, feeling the ups

and downs of our lives, as we sit side by side.

Its scratched surface holds marks, each one a small tale,

like lines on our hands, they remind us of grace.

Here’s where we thrive, even when we feel frail—

a milk crate is more than just an old piece of space.