Crumbling the Ancient City

Fog engulfs my everywhere. Passing by my reflection,
not asking for change or a smoke, but just going beyond me. It seems to be somewhat
of a taunter. It hovers in my personal space, cracks the soap bubble of control.
The dirt that coats me turns to grime. A drippy green rolls over freckles.

The dark skin speckles float about like
the islands of Micronesia. Hang out as if stains from
orange marmalade and ripe tomatoes that were thrown,
exploded onto a neighbor’s cheap privacy fence. The green

covers the skin like lava flooding a savannah,
crumbs painted to the table by spilled milk.