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Archive for the ‘Urban Pastoral’ Category

She had been in a rush all day
but she paused for a second
on the cool, smooth, gray of the sidewalk.
There were no flowers to smell in the city.

No friend she ever had would recall
this small act of humanism, this epiphany
that would slow the fall for just one second
on the cool, smooth, gray of the sidewalk.

After all, there where no flowers to smell in the city
Nothing to do, if you paused for just one second
So Naturally there was nothing to pity in the fact
that something was about to fall.

50 stories up, a painter too felt the epiphany
so he paused for just one second
Letting his feet forget the many hardship they’ve endured.
His friends couldn’t recall him ever acting so odd.

50 stories below, the cool, smooth, gray, of the sidewalk
Looked as if a blank paper with yellow lines.
It enjoyed the idle talk of business pedestrians about how
There were no flowers to smell in the city.

50 different stories, filled with people
none of whom could recall
it ever raining red paint before.
Something must have gone wrong.

The black and white newspapers the next day
capture only a monochrome woman lying face down
on the cool, smooth, gray of the sidewalk.
Why she had left work, her secretary couldn’t recall.

There were no flowers to smell in the city,
Nothing but leaves and cold air.
The weight of 50 stories having painted her tale
on the cool, smooth, gray of the sidewalk.

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It occurred to me recently
That dreams are for those who can pay the most
Over a bowl of sugared cardboard
And fungal toast
In my sublet apartment
With more rats than ghosts
In the morning the sun hits the trash
And the local man, who smells likes booze
And lives under the over pass
Emerges, and we wait to watch him see his shadow
Because, if he does, then alas
There will be 6 more weeks of winter

Winter is a fresh coat of paint
Except for those who can’t afford clothes
Who pray that perhaps a saint
Or some other wraith with gold
Can revive some distant and faint
Recollections of a life put on hold.
It occurred to me recently
That food doesn’t fill the hungry
It struck me in a dream
While I excavated a dungy
Moss filled basement
Where some prophet had gone to die.

 

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