Come not as a tourist to a foreign
land, city kin to none
With winding streets that pick and choose;
poles topped in light, not cluttered
by advertisements
one-way arrows to dead ends
signs in unknown languages.
Come not as a tourist to intimidation
Afraid to walk the alleys
where black cats mean good luck
and men with knives are genial.
The cornerstore will keep you alive
Empty wrappers of encouragement
But they will not sell you paper
I will turn on the streetlights for you
Come not as a tourist with little
to invest, money to spend and move on
Since the only thing between me
and the gaping hole in the door frame
is an absolute nothing.
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