Under What Circumstances Would someone Love a Dirty City?

Night after night I hear the subway running fast through my sleeping town. She wakes me at precisely 4:45 am, with her whistle, that loud and powerful whistle. She is my mother waking me up every morning, telling me it’s time to go to work at the small factory across town.
It smells of sweat and morning breath two hours into the shift. Men of all ages grunt as they pull and push heavy machinery into drive-able positions. I staple the cushion onto the framing of what looks like a chair, but for some reason is called a seat.
Twelve hours have passed and I am finally released for my lonely walk home.
Veteran men walk with their hands in their noses, portraying the damage of post traumatic stress disorder. I try to walk away from them, but they don’t mind anyone near their territory, as long as the loud airplanes above aren’t around. When the planes make their welcome home noises, the men remember the bombs overhead, and force themselves into a safe place, usually a stranger’s car or a local restaurant sleeping for the evening.
Aged women selling their insides for a cheap price whistle at me. Their whistles are different than my mother’s. They are appealing, sensual, forceful and dirty. My mother’s is loud, consistent and clean. I like her call during the night, I ignore the other calls: continue walking forward three blocks—turn right, up stairs, open door. Home.
I am a bastard son. I have no father. My mother wakes me up every morning at the same time. I work every day around bad breath and salty water. My neighborly ways are to ignore women who are too good for me and men who have seen the world.
I am tired, good night, mother. Don’t forget to wake me up.