My city grins with gaps in her teeth.
A wonderful woman once, puffed and
frilled like those who shopped her streets,
she’s empty now. Her pearly whites pulled down.
She’s a wayward home for wasted poets,
here where the wind sings through
her downtown canyons chilling…few.
Rusting alone, my city ceased writing poems.
So she sits in her valley passing gas,
dreaming in free verse, recalling lovers left
the night before. Stanzas written at first
light, sent to cigar box archives at nights.
— Lee Chottiner