by Sean Murphy
The city speaks. The air shifts in the open and empty spaces—from the stale corners,
exhaust from the cars emanating spent energy; unseeable steam rising from sewage drains;
the day itself succumbing to early evening chill, routines winding down or else waking up.
The rows of mismatched houses—in the heat of summer held hostage by the sluggish hate
of heat—keep the people inside uncomfortable, but definitely alive and not in immediate
danger of dying. Of course, this is conditional once the windows turn white with frost.
The bus stops, rancid sweatshops during the long and languid days, now provide free
relief from freezing water and pregnant air, which drive the streets in wet, blank waves.
Pennies shriek from filth, cold to the touch, useless in pockets reserved for raw hands.
Pigeons pull half-shifts, no accomplices dropping crumbs or trash cans overflowing; sunk
inside themselves behind silenced AC units, asleep beneath the moon that mocks them,
unable to dream away the immutable rules Nature makes, resigned to this sullen rhythm.
The well-fed, particularly those born into wealth, remain reluctant to spill any secrets
it’s their duty—and burden—to shelter: there’s too much to lose, so little to share, and
there’s never enough to go around; make them pay, let them pray. This city has spoken.
No comments:
Post a Comment