Sellophane

If I walked through a street,
a street in a black and white memory,
the kind that has rusted with age,
I wonder, would I look to my sides?
Look at windows that bleed in the darkness
And empty rooms that stink off rotting thought.
Would I look at the rooms where coins jingle merrily
as a soul is raped under the gaze of my salivating brothers.
Or would I want to burn this memory,
that festers like a sore on the underside of my foot?
My thoughts are interrupted,
I hear a voice say, "Does it hurt?"
Does it?