777 - #22

The courts fill with skateboards, scraping the asphalt like flint
as face-painted urchins running for sausage
blur out the sun rays in chalk.
Merengue's compressed in a transistor radio
from a Jacob Riis window behind a sheer.
The shockingly gorgeous have the sharpest of tongues here
while giants wear braids and giggle to no one in particular.