Everything old and poor and dusty calls to us.
We stalk the city, hunting the authentic.
It's pouring but we stand bareheaded,
soaking in our leaking raincoat.
We'd rather die than carry an umbrella.
We have no umbrella,
no hat, no gloves, no money for the streetcar.
All we have in our pockets is a dirty handkerchief,
crushed cigarettes and kitchen matches.
"Conscience," Jonathan Galassi
[Chicago Avenue at Winchester Street]
