‘You are disgusting.’

Why do you have to keep bringing up bums and trash and poverty and the fucking piss on the sidewalk? You complain about the guy who gives lyrical voice to his hemorrhoids but you’re actually no better. You have the smarts to be a journalist, a social scientist, an art critic, even a poet, an author of elevated subjects, still you chose to be an eternal baby, too impressed by the world to simply live in it. You have to point and shout, look, a doggy, a birdie, a poopy, a bloody condom on the grass by our picnic spot in the park.