Mueller 2011

The city is ours, parts are mine Like the sign on Ohio and Lakeshore Rust consuming the edges all eight an ironic “STOP” watermarking my territorial claim I own the overpass at 290 and Harlem conquered through dangling an act of gymnastics, balance, and quick work before sprinting from flashing blues. Car no. 8257 is all mine as is bus no. 2021 a blizzard-made easy target. I have little to nothing to my legal name Tax dollars haven’t housed, fed, or educated me but they sure try to buff me out. I don’t ask for much but I’ll ride to the end of the line to make sure my name still claims what little is mine Not mother-given but what the world of this city knows me— can’t ignore me by. My medians, maps, and moving vans, My claims to city property, can’t fit in a safety deposit box. But I am rich in concrete, aluminum, and admirers of the wayward youth artist scene.