April Poem-A-Day 12 – City Poem
Even the snow is black
greasy with the tracks of tired tires,
rolling without an end –
day in, day out.
Twenty-four rush hours,
spilling in random precision
over boulevards like cold veins,
running along the hostile eyes
of office buildings and hotels.
Isolation stalks our smiles,
so we save them,
until inside gardens crowd our comfort zones,
as elevators hold our politeness –
small talk on the smoke area benches
in stark contrast with the social death outside.
Featured image by Fmax here.