You call it homeland. Someplace
where rain runs down
grooves into the mouths of raccoons
or other urbanized animals,
but I have no direction to anything
but a half-hearted dive bar
or the nearest Burger King.
You have to understand
what geography means to me:
concrete, blacktop, fannys, runts.
To the right, you can find a marooned tree
with a misused condom at its base—I sat
in its grass, exhausted, only to find the sod
had not taken root. And there is no skyline
to speak of, there is no roll in the land,
you see too much, too far. Neighbors shutter
themselves, convinced that someone
is always looking. Learn little tactics
to stay connected: speak through sewer.