DAY 24- Post for 5/12

Sometimes you write a lot of poems about a city. Most of the time they are under-developed.



Center City

Steam pours up from a rusty, green gutter like an exhaust fan from hell,
as if Lucifer needed some relief.

Across the river is a train yard,
long since abandoned--
desolate and stripped.
A skeleton of all that it once was.

Raped by inactivity,
Consumed by the capital-crazed who saw it no longer feasible
to support its existence. Eventually, the juggernaut of racing iron
slowed and starved to the carcass that remains.

I gaze up at the prominent figures of the Center City skyline.
If I strove to their heights I would have a long way to fall.
Stare at the lights atop a building's peak and realize the futility of wishing on that star.
At my feet is a fallen angel with newspaper wings to keep him warm.
He looks up at the same distant beacon of lost hope through a Mad Dog gaze.

The man with the five month shadow that creeps
from his sad eyes, down his face.
Long since abandoned--
Desolate and stripped.
A skeleton of all he once was.

Violated by isolation--
a job and family that saw it no longer feasible
to support his habit. A brown bag and grime become
permanent accessories to his ensemble of misfortune.

Casualties of a starved city.
Its dinner guests--tycoons with insatiable appetites,
And we are their spring lambs.