Avenue B:
  Alexandra Babiak

The horses had hinges
in their mouths so
we grabbed their
jaws
clasping until they
made noise;
disapproval.
We walk the same
streets for one simple
drink.
Flush our bodies towards
the Hudson
this masterpiece took
one day.
"But you live on the east
river," he'd say.
Stuy-town projects
sending filthy
saxophones played for
his dead mother, brother,
father.
An army of bulldogs
invading the road.
My route intersected.
Motorcycle for me
and I changed my
boots.
The only way I could prevent
my death or
some psychosis they're
sheathing from
me beneath
the desk in a
vat of all our
spit-flowing, falling
free.
Because when you
laugh your saliva
spits on all our
souls.
For the low, low
price of 99 cents.
It says so on
the little sign on the
tin can.

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