I Found Dried Shit Out In The Hallway Poem by James McLain

I found dried shit out in my hallway,
like the South's forgotten flag,
just sitting there,
like a testament to all the things
we won't talk about.

The landlord's a bastard,
the neighbors ain't worth a damn,
but there's something about this place
that stinks more than rot—
it's the heat,
the sweat,
the ignorance clinging
like thick mud
to the soles of my feet.

No trespassing signs
hammered into every yard,
as if the world stopped
just past the fence line.
You can hear ‘em inside—
the whispers,
the cracked voices,
the way they shut their windows
whenever someone walks by.

Yes, she answers her door
in nothing but panties,
her eyes half-open,
a cigarette hanging
like some tired flag
off her lip.
She no longer cares,
not about the trash in the hall,
not about the kids screaming
in the lot outside.

The sound of children
everywhere—
like mosquitoes buzzing,
like they're born knowing
this is the way of things,
this is where the world begins
and the sidewalk ends.
They don't ask many questions.
They don't wonder
why the fences are so tall,
why the sky looks so tired,
why the cracks in the walls
feel like prison bars.

Ignorance, they say,
is bliss.
But it ain't.
It's just the way you close your eyes
when the sun burns too bright,
when the heat gets too much.
It's just the way
you pretend the shit in the hall
ain't there,
doesn't smell,
waiting,
hard as stone,
like a monument
to all the things
you'd rather not see.