Sunday, 18th of June
Washington is. . . .
We are sleeping in Ruth's rowhouse,
And the air inside it smells odd,
but you get used to it.
The dank streets
Are full of
Tanned pedestrians
Dred-locks like wet whips at noon
Crust into dandruff by evening.
The sun beats
Down, harder than at home
And we walk around all day in festivals
That display useless trinkets,
So much sweat that,
When I sit down,
Wet denim creeps beneath .
At night
You can't sleep unless
You're deaf
Traffic whines and the
Big city noises distress
my ears.
Everyone seems to
Have this . . . perpetual grime
It's on their faces— age lines, weathered skin
Where sweat has embedded
Dust and dirt—
I hope
I don't
Get infected.