Love story

I live under a bridge. It is not bridge built over water but a bridge that carries the track of the trains across a main way into the ghetto. The train reams across my shoulders and shudders my bones, the shadows keep the concrete cold against my back, my teeth chatter in delight and my toes have grown the dirty blue black of the dribbles of water that seep slowly through the stone cracks when the winter ice melts, and freezes, melts, and freezes.

This hole is as ugly as me. I could stay here forever.

The people hurry along, walking along a small path precariously pushed up against the lumpen sewage of traffic. I see the tops of their fragile heads and their paddle feet beneath them. They are puerile and fleshy as earthworms and I only pay them mind to spit pigeon shit upon their shoulders.

Nothing has caught my attention here for a span of time I will only describe as Past, because today I saw her. She unfolded herself from a crack in the sidewalk with a elegance the would make a mantis judder. She, of dust and gumb and sidewalk matter. She, as a dry stick, a grimy wrapper, a fastfood straw paper rose. She she she! O! She is as ugly as me!