The city is not paved with gold. There are only dandelions pushing through the concrete. I tell myself empty pockets does not mean empty dreams. The only number I know is my age. The only thing I trust is my eyes and it’s telling me to see beyond the broken street lights, over to where the highrise buildings seem to lean into each other, whispering secrets of another new girl that just got off a raft with a jingle of keys announcing each step in her arrival. I grow tired of that quickly, reach into my coat and grab them as i trudge on, inching forward, one foot at a time.
There are no smells here. Nothing like Nana’s pot of stew weaving its aroma around the block so people who cannot pay for food hurry over with their plates to keep their bellys warm. No sizzle in the air from fried morsels competing in their brown swells, from Johnny Sugar- something to go with Nana’s stew. I shouldn’t think about Nana. I should worry that I hold keys that open nothing, in a place where I have no one and my growling stomach is the only music in the streets but, where are all the people?
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