J U S T A S A G U S T
Walking past a young man
shitting his boxer
on a breezy B'way corner
just as a gust
blows under the dog's distended ass
and sweeps the all too fresh odor to my nose
reminds me of something
I read of Dante's Florence,
which
"was, thanks to the prosperity and initiative
of its citizens, in many ways ahead of its
time. Streets were paved and drainage was
well provided for, but since all transportation
was by horseback, and goods and supplies were
borne through the streets on mules and donkeys,
the condition of the streets was all but
indescribable;"
No, dear professor,
it is:
over the first pavement lay a second,
thanks to the prosperity and initiative of the animals,
which couldn't be drained away, oh no
which couldn't be rinsed off the streets --
like the hair of Allesio Interminei
otherwise unknown
except for his shitful head
(what fabulous
and hateful bullshit he must have spread)
that Dante gave him in hell.
Well,
Beatrice stepped in those streets.
Four blocks more down this one
bread and rolls are baking.