Zoned for Neglect

The bus is forty minutes late again

and the rain is a heavy, industrial gray.

I’m standing with strangers who look for the rain

to wash all the grime of the morning away.

Across the street, a man with a roller

is painting a wall where a face used to be.

A boy’s memorial, a neighborhood solar,

now covered in beige for the council to see.

Down on the curb sits a sodden old bed,

a mattress that’s soaking up oil and the grit.

The city doesn't care if you're living or dead,

as long as you don't make a scene out of it.