I hope this poem is edgy enough for you guys,
tipping back tumblers of rosy liquids, clapping politely before
a night of scuttling from alley to alley.
I hope this poem is deep enough for you to drown,
slamming hands on the concrete bottom before
surfacing, bewildered and soppy.
I hope this poem is creative enough, stands out
like the stink of burning plastic, the ubiquitous odor, colorful
as tipped taxis these revolutionary years.
I hope you enjoy this poem,
reading it in the park alongside Shakespeare
(I prefer Chaucer),
as you mime and pant, children scurrying from
perilous parents as the sun
melts, feeding my frenzy, oh hipsters.