So you hear the familiar

Howl on the karaoke microphone

And the growl of your common flea decorated mutt

The smoky smell of charred pork once living

Permeated the air

Coughing as bits of which

Drove themselves into your mouth

Down your throat, choking and getting you thinking

If all the smoke you puffed is getting back at you

Children of sunburnt brown skin, glimmering

With the sweat of poverty, the perspiration of being raised

Working class, the trickling beads of a life that would never

Know wi-fi or planes,

whose stars are the ones at night, blanketing the dark sky

not Michelin. Not celebrities.

Their voices, the rambunctious soundtrack of cinderblock gutter

And ceiling fan shanty

Unsightly but true

All a reflection.

Look inside.

It’s in you, too



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