The Hustle of Feet

Sun peeks through polluted clouds 
as they walk down Montrose Boulevard.
Led by a gay ex-heroin addict, 
they become a trail of scarred mutts. 
There’s Juan’s romance to glue, 
Mike and the collapsed veins 
in his arms, 
and then there’s Henry, 
hunched over without breath. 
They’re told exercise detoxifies the body, 
expels centipedes squirming in their bones. 
They walk past the busy intersection. 
The smell of warm tortillas 
at Taco Cabana fills 
the chaos of their nostrils. 
They hate this even more. 
Traffic at 8 a.m., the hustle of feet 
over cracked sidewalks. 
Blistering neon signs, the sex shops 
and Tex-Mex restaurants. 
They get as far as the car wash, then return 
down a path of strewn campaign signs, 
of beer bottles nestled in dirt, 
only to settle back into 
the ruin of their bodies.