The Urban Poor

Those marginalized people are so calculating. You wouldn’t think to use the word ‘sophisticated’ on them, but it fits their ways. To them, everyone’s a vending machine. They put money in and push just the right button. Vavoom, they get what they want. I always flash the “sold out” light when they’re standing in my glow. Coke first, nope, then Sprite. Sorry no service. Then the strong sellers try diet, and still I’m all: ‘Look chum. You best move on to that one down the corner, before I call the cops.’ Mention cops and they move along, cause urban poor folks know the two rules of perpetual poverty: Don’t get evicted. And don’t get yourself arrested. Once either of those happens, you’re instantly shoved down to the second basement. Seven eleven won’t employ you, and you can kiss section eight goodbye. Life gets hard when your soche tells that story. You have your rights, yes, you've sown them all over town. And I’ve got mine right here, on Broadway and Lake—public property, watching you tumble with the guy with the hundred dollar bill hanging out of his pocket. Yeah I’ll call the cops. Yeah I’ve got money that you’ll win. But you won’t get away. All at once you’ve got your sway on, wiping your mouth, saying he spit in your face when you asked him for some change, but they’ll shrug that off. His clothes smell sweeter than yours, and what are you doing asking for change? They put you in the backseat: a shifting mass of calculations. I get back in my career path. I was only down here for the cheap Camels.