For Mercy, For Truth

In the scents of the air,
lies the very transportation
to ferry you into another people’s lair,
a part of this medium

It’s in my neighborhood
where the white chinks
make their frenchly things,
And the black krakers
ride their car of stripes.
It’s on the shores of
Number five Dale street,
and number 20’s turf
that the way of fiji and the swiss
come at me, 50 feet from my bed

Offset arrangements of coffee cups
In tragically hip patios and shops.