part of a letter to a friend in prison

they are blasting mountains to build more highway
and every time i enter the city i get sick
the toxic perfumes of others invade cranial pores
filling them with red dye number fourteen
(the colour used to tint ketchup potato chips
which also give me headaches)

i wish i never had to enter this city
yesterday a child no more than eight sat wrapped
in a blanket on the steps of the First United
on Hastings
and
one block down three teenagers rocked back and forth,
crouched in a doorway
smoking crack

the tao te ching teaches us detachment
to minimize suffering
but each day, on a bus towards the metropolis
pulled from my forest eden
i am sure this way is not found easily.