Monday, February 23, 2015

The city

too much happens here,
the streets are widened with nothing but the anger
of the banners, the shouts
repeating echos
we have men and women who need a call to the street
to pave new lives, others to dot old letters
into comprehension, so that new literate mothers
can read, anger in fancy words.

so much happens here,
there are old walls and solid stories,
here are walls one leans on to watch
unzipping, the day ;
three cars whiz by, one the color of blood
another the valley and one packed, like pickles
humans upon humans in this disastrous city
I watch as the sky turns and think of the unsold oranges
on the cart in front of me, ample is this hunger and sweetened
I think, in the city
no one looks humans in the eye any longer
not even the shy kittens screeching the corners for a life support of thrown
trash and jugs, void of milk

so much happens here,
the hangings of washing like the hanging of men
it's set for a grand display,
of well versed, sharp linen and grazed eyes
the size of almonds, minuets the sound of fury
there's what you see when you
open your eyes

so little happens here,
this is the burden of small cities,
they wear mantles bigger than their shoulders
loose-fitting so the sins of pregnancies and the failures of men
do not show on their skins
but that's the grace of small cities,
they, unlike me
can easily find balance.

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