There’s an ache in my knees

familiar, reminding me

of the miles run in this city.

My teeth cut and slide

nighttime grinding

accompanying the dreams I have.

The buzz in my brain

vibrates, an echo of street art

I drive past each day.

I stop to read the paper

just to remember

The News is nothing new.

Why does the color Gray

get to be line leader today?

We shuffle forward, toward,

head behind head,

watching blonde ponytails bob in front of us

looking down at untied shoelaces

not able to bend over to tie them.

The tents in the park slowly move

away from the road

tucked messily against

the fence of the expressway

and I run past them in the cold

bold graffiti text reads, “Fuck 12”

on wherever spray paint can dry.

My guy and I

went for a drive yesterday

and in the rubble of Lake Street

found the trauma again.

It latched onto our clothes

and we took it home

its wildness the sub-consciousness

of an entire city.

We let it curl onto our laps

and take residence

in our bodies;

with our aches and our dreams

spray painted possibilities–

Minneapolis

is forever changed.