MAKING OFF
WITH MILLIONS
There's the feeling you get when you run into
the wind, of a faint resistance that's not quite
yours - not knowing what you're coming into,
nor what it was you've just left. A certain feel,
like the politics of the deaf or some interest
group worth heeding. Here, here, before us,
Interstate 95. We call the approaching city
before us 'the Indians.' It's really Philadelphia,
but we never call it that : reverence for those
natives who were torched from their riverfront
lands, by the liars of the Walking Purchase, the
cheating bastards who ran. We've always seen
that weak line of modern skyscrapers as the
sorrowful old Indians sneaking back in for
another, last look, at their sorrowful place
no longer. It's always not quite there.
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