It went fast, actually. Excelled heart rate,
the jury, the grungy cage, all until now.
I signed the papers, received a small bag
of my belongings and I scuffed out
of the front doors into a world I once knew
so well. It was cleaner thirty years ago.
It wasn’t fifty steps before garbage cracked
under my feet; and not too long after,
I was kicking cigarette butts down the avenue.
If it weren’t for the same hazy air
and the smell of overpopulation, I’d need someone
to convince me that this was still my city.
Even the skyline looks different.
Window reflections remind me how old
I’ve become, how alone I am in this new future.
My only comfort is the familiar air pollution,
the same I inhaled before I was shoved
into the police car, the same air you are breathing,
the same air that traveled through security
undetected, into my six-by-eight home,
onto my novels and my letters, and then back out
into the unknown with me. We’re holding hands,
pollution with its fingers laced in mine,
tightening as I inhale, a soft release breathing out.
Adam Gianforcaro is a freelance writer working professionally for non-profit associations. He has had several works published in print and online magazines and recently published a poetry collection titled Morning Time in the Household, Looking Out.