At 10am a housewife rips open
a blue and silver can of anchovies
and then spits on the sidewalk.
Ten feet away
men from the gas company
stand on steel plates
and flecks of white paint chip
off row houses,
litter the housewife’s front porch.
The shadows of Mack trucks
flash through the living room.
Her hair, like grease from the underbelly
of an engine, glistens in the sunlight.
This, I say, this is what I want
when I imagine myself
longing for freedom.

Photo by Brad