Section 8 Blues

only writers live on this block.

they've been kicked out of glass houses and castles in the sky,
those privileged palaces where their only neighbors are peace and quiet.

laid off, fired, sent packing, 86'd,
eviction leads them to Hell's Kitchen
or perhaps its bookstore,
with thousands of self help texts
but no cure for their common diagnosis.

so they sulk on their stoops,
watching the new move-ins struggle
with their circumstance,
wishing their own homes could be comfortably cluttered
instead of neat, feng-shui'd, swept clean,
waiting for the word to become art
and dwell where it used to--
the fragments that hang around now
are too harsh to have over for dinner.

they wonder if inspiration can be FedEx'd to their location,
but there are no special deliveries;
the mailbox stands empty.

such is the toxicity of their city.

*Author's note: this is subject to change...feedback appreciated.*