of a butterfly in el barrio or a stranger in paradise

Home; a place to rest your feet, a place where you can sleep. Man, a place where you can shit, and no one can complain. My Home /el barrio where people rest their feet outside on the fire escapes, where i have a place to sleep with my brothers, sisters, cousins oh yes, and Rover all in the same bed. / where no can smell shit 'cause we've been living in it all our lives (we're immune to its stink) My home; where on hot summer days people gather on the grandstands / the fire escapes and in the box seats/ the stoops and cheer our home gang's stickball team (they call themselves "the new york junkies"). and on those cool summer evenings we hang our legs from the windows / the roofs /      the fire escapes while eating pop corn and sippin coke / or snorting it   / shooting it and watch the Saturday evening gang-fights. yes, this is home /      our paradises and you're always welcomed as long as you're poor. and it was here       / in my home that a butterfly happened to wing by he was easily spotted as a UFO because of all his beautiful colors he flew over the buildings / through the lots / around home plate      a sewer top in the middle of the street he flew in his dance about manner. and i almost cried when i saw children reaching reaching out for him      reaching for hope for love / for that lost dream and he continued dancing /     or maybe flying away away to save his beauty from these love-hungry children he flew        he flew and i cried when he fell down the sewer / now he was part of us.