Self-Portrait in a Bay Window -- Two Versions

This poem is part of a series that I am putting together based on the lives of three women, grandmother, mother, and daughter. I have two versions of this poem. Which one do you like best?

Self Portrait in the Bay Window

“It is better to say ‘I am suffering’ than to say

‘this landscape is ugly.’”

-- Simone Well

a rat scrapes viciously at a small hole in the grey-black garbage bag

That little fucker forgot to put the God-Damn lid on!

As others crawl in and out of the crack in old Josie’s back porch;

Suffocating the little row house with peek-a-boo shades and boarded-up doors,

the brown bags containing even browner bottles

and the guard railing over basement windows,

the street light never gives way to the comfort of the night;

it keeps things loud and pressing

and the scraping gets under your skin

sleep is kept out with the night,

every thing a smoggy dim orange

pale, deep-peach colored splotches of weed in cement

basketball court with pothole waiting to swallow the

good-for-nothing little black bastards that live East of the Blvd.,

and the only thing that makes up for this stifling haze

is the occasional shimmer off of the hood of a freshly waxed Beamer

stars of the ghetto.

Self Portrait in the Bay Window

“It is better to say ‘I am suffering’ than to say

‘this landscape is ugly.’”

-- Simone Well

A rat scrapes viciously at a small hole

in the grey garbage bag

That lil fucker forgot the God-Damned Lid!

others hop back and forth.

Choking the row homes with boarded doors and

the windows with guardrails,

the streetlight withholds all nightly comforts:

It keeps thing loud, pressing,

noise crawls under one’s skin,

sleep – kept out with the night.

All things a smoggèd orange,

deep-peach colored splotches of weed in stone,

the b-ball court’s sinkhole

sucks up young good-for-nothing Black Bastards.

Shine from freshly waxed cars

are shallow things that save them from the haze,

stars of the ghetto, twinkling through the fog.

Portrait in the Bay Window

(final edition)

“It is better to say ‘I am suffering’ than to say

‘this landscape is ugly.’”

-- Simone Well

A rat scrapes at a hole in a gray trash bag –

that little fucker forgot the God-damned Lid! –

as others crawl in & out of Old Josie’s porch.

Choking row houses with peek-a-boo shades,

boarded-up doors, brown bags stuffed

with even browner bottles, and guard railings

over basement windows, the streetlight,

keeps things loud and pressing, a scraping

that suffocates skin, shutting out sleep and dreams

along with the night. Its smoggy orange stain

on weed-splotched cement and the b-ball court’s

sinkhole waiting to devour tomorrow’s good-for-nothing

little bastards. East of the Blvd., the occasional shimmer

off the hood of a freshly waxed Beamer is

is a Northern star, twinkling through the fog.