Don’t Call Me Second City

This name isn’t yours to give me

Beauty unbeknownst

to you I hold my

head high with

a shank hidden

behind my back.

Streets blaring with

the sounds of

cars honking,

the L train rolling

that screech

indescribable for

any and all who

don’t inhabit.

Like a symphony

for the hardly heard.

Homeless fill corners

eating garbage,

discarded pizza.

They scawbble

like seagulls.

Gritty, grungy, grey

and beautiful all in

one wrapped up

with an imperfect bow

for you to partake.

Don’t call me

the Second City.