A Sense of Place: Brussels

Gray grids of steel fencing

  screech of a saw cutting through concrete

smell of charred halal chicken

taste of dust

torque on a big wrench

I’m everywhere

you least expect,

bold, black on white,

an all-caps sticker.

 

But now fenced in,

encroached upon,

double -faced Jen

swaps angsty looks,

like holograms:

pink-faced, white hair,

forced to share space

with spray can muralists.

 

I can’t exist

alone above

writhing colored

tags. Here life drags.

I fear I’ll be

painted over,

defaced, whitewashed.

 

Below me, Jennie,

an anti-Barbie–

no Ken, no merch,

not a billion

dollar Mattel

commodity.

 

Poor poor Jennie,

community

of one. And love?

If only I had a body.

 

Hey, good lookin’

I’m stuck on you.

How about me?

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