i don't know anything about amherst, massachusetts and the constitution of a certain singular poetess who hailed from there, but i'll tell you that the sun in the bronx, new york never rose a ribbon at a time. and contrary to conventional wisdom, it ruptured into the firmament a virgin saint's silver halo spoke at a time, never with the jarring orange of a 9mm gun flare. then the news, like blase'subway rodents, scampered on just because there's just nothing better else to do. arthur avenue, as a habit, put on its month old unwashed black and grey bathrobe, never cinching it around the waist. the tick infested pigeons started shitting sickly white dumps wherever they felt like it, and i, cursing from my musty but sweet bed, muttered to myself, "fuck, when can i ever win the powerball mega lotto?" but like the poetess, i also know not how the sun set. it seemed there is a grey, and not purple, stile, no, a vestibule, that big for their age and potty mouthed saffron boys in their low sagging jeans and girls in their d cup sports bras were adamantly refusing to pass through. it's only when finally they heard someone overhead screaming something like train doors are closing when they all whipped out their orange metro cards and grudgingly trudged inside like unbroken pitbulls and terriers and mutts yanked back by their owners into their one bedroom apartments.
