Spare Time
We walk over the pavements that display
a crude mosaic of chewing gum, needles
and half dead pigeons.
I know that mountains reside here, that
fields now entombed with concrete offer
a catacomb only visible through aged eyes.
As our coats hang loose, the change in
our pockets jangle, just enough ammo to
pass this free time, that we never hold
sacred enough.
It now frees us momentarily from the iron traps
that have become far more comfortable than
we ever anticipated.
No need now for those once consistent
breakouts, as the waters now run at our pace,
not theirs.
Morning Rush
That afternoon pacing towards work, in
frantic lateness I saw the gathered crowds.
He was spread across the curb; ironed
polo shirt, clean shaved, gelled hair,
knife wound in his left side.
The red river at his feet seemed to glisten,
reflecting the torrid tale of the hour previous,
as the air thickened within the crowd, like
a fog with the power to deafen as well as blind.
The crowd then dispersed, no two eyes meeting,
chatter suddenly erupted, as the help arrived
neither asking for or gaining assistance.
Within time's jaws we left him, in that waiting
room of ours, our responsibilities waving their
flags at yet another parade of delays.
Curtains
You hang oblivious, dust encrusted, a foul design
job, left over by previous irresponsible occupiers.
Hanging limp, like flaked skin, your rail fractured
like a soot covered broken spine.
When appropriate wipe away tears on your ends,
that are soaked into your fabric, and drank with gusto.
The cracked windows know you all to well, know
your almost smug like presence is really just
a cover for the secrets you hold.
And for all your time there, tying up the room,
you still don't fit the windows.