paper city

paper barely touches cement sidewalk,
newsstand man with dull
pocket knife

cuts twine like cutting ties with
friends who were;

he walks in an awkward way,
just like he sees the headline

with the coffee stains,
with the singed edges
from an arson start,

with the diagram to build
a lighter than air ship;

then he began to dream—

of tall steeples with antique

of cobbled lanes meandering like
summer creeks,

stickball and knickers,

of fire hydrants painting streets
wet with excitement,

irish flatfoots confiscating apples,

of life swarming at a slower pace,
pickpockets nonetheless;

then came the underground iron
horse with the underground

taller buildings with lower morals,

crowds moving in different
languages, in different

cement shoes in a river if
you didn’t cough it up,

ghosts of children’s laughter
being run over by yellow

his lighter than air ship hits
the morning cement

like a stack of reduced size
‘all the news’,

he’s back at his station in life,
founded upon sympathy,

his calloused hands form a
shadow of what was,

he played the stickball…

Copyright © 03/29/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®



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