she sits bolt upright in her lawn chair
she chain smokes cigarettes and flips back her hair.
she is the capturer of all that is true.
at least that which flows from me and from you.
she breathes out the smoke she breathes in the flame.
she's a hell of a promoter with much joy to claim
as of yet.
she's no ones pet.
the corner she sits on is quite festive
the hood boys look at her as she gazes at the rest of them
the houses are all odd colors
the streets are all cracked.
it looks like a war zone
the windows are smashed.
that block needs a mother
like chaos needs order
some dont wish to bother.
they go live on the border
everyones shoulder needs a hand on
but it looks like this place might
finally be abandoned.