the stench of pee -- which
sounds grosser if you call it
urine -- hit me in the face my
first footstep in new york and
continued to pervade through the
hot and humid spell every summer on
the subway with its windows
sealed shut and no air for circulation a
matted, sweaty crush the dogs
would pant their master's howling on
beds of fetid fleas the blackened
pall of smudgy buildings drips down
without a breeze to wash an
arm would take an army to
rinse the filth away each night
was spent on sweaty sheets above the
neighbors' evening fray invaded
screens invaded eardrums
mosquitoes take the left a pillow
works at first to muffle-cate but don't
expect no rest a furry flurry by
the streetlamp where
mammoth moths have kids ripped from the
wombs of stagnant fan flair a
brownout hits the grid and that
first summer with its urine a
musty basement seethed where I
crawled cramped into a window
-- knelt down - prayed just
to breathe.
Ryn Gargulinski is a noted poet, artist and journalist. She is currently living in the Pacific Northwest.