And so they crawl.
Into sardine cans too full of little spaces.
There are closets to cook meals in and
beds that close themselves into the walls.
A scent of garbage lingers in the alleys
that are lined with matching garbage cans.
Bugs and rats are represented too.
Facades of fake brick face the front
with cracked cement poured into steps.
Shrinking plots that once held grass
are growing brown into the black.
Lost within a maze of one-way streets
that seem to flow back to each other.
Cyclone fencing, rusted from the rain,
endures its chains to keep them out.
The neighbors hide within their sequenced blocks.
While clocks keep winding them up into time.
The sky is gray, but no one seems to notice.
They spend their time in offices that have
no doors or ceilings to enclose the little privacy
once held in such exactitude by them.
At five o'clock, the rain begins, and swarms
of round umbrellas shelter them. Seas flowing
down the streets to an unaltered, primal beat.
Slow to quick to deep that seeks the heat.
It isn't them, they say, that caused
the trees to go away. They've never
even seen a field full of crazy wild flowers.
They live by moments reaching into hours.
The drunk was
murdered in the murky mist
that lives just past the glow of streetlight safety.
The aging hookers look for doors
to hide the gross of their obscenity.
Invisibly, they turn their eyes away.
Neon lights announce the sale
in ounces of their dignity while,
civilized, they buy another history
that sings in praise and glory of their wars.
Far away, they never seem to hear
the closing doors. As one by one,
the love is shuttered out.
Suddenly, the air raid sirens scream.
The radios wave high upon a beam.
It must have been a bad dream,
for their wars were never meant
to come back home. An eerie glow
is rising high, in that, their favored
distance. Two airplanes crashed
into their towering ease. A hush
rang o'er their country that was
never quite appeased. They went
and bought more groceries that night.
Pretending that they never felt the fright.
Sunday came, they prayed next to
the terrorists that ever sought their fame.
Monday morning, back to work again.
Until their businesses went under,
they would simply walk around
the mighty pain. Then find themselves
within the pouring rain without a shelter.
The gold in their umbrella turned to dust.
Like chain link fencing turning into rust,
or grass that turns the brown into the black.
Nothing more. It just goes on.
Spreading o'er the world,
their urban sprawl...
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2004 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .