1
min

Love Letters to Philadelphia

Image of Ritapa N.

Ritapa N.

11 readings

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A rose garden as an ashtray
with a taste of salted caramel as bourbon,
every block a namedrop like each character standing at a subway stop,
with her eyes red, eyes wide, eyes squinting back at the sunlight,
the stoops change in the weather. Windows perched with the day dripping through and each satellite unseen is recorded in the news,

if I could I would

and if I’ve been there

I already did it.

Peaked on top of a rooftop party,
glistening in the drapery of a moonlit small city, big town with words for a winter jacket, a mouthful of rhetoric indecipherable without a field of vision,
you’re not lost without a road to walk
down Broad Street. It was all on Broad Street and a bike ride up a broken window and a bag of trash in a tree.
Memory in. Memory out,
day in,
day loud.

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