Monday, June 11, 2007

Coming to the City a Stranger

The roil of so many pigeons –
Forgive us, and also ask our names.

Dark city with a dangerous cliff
And encroaching bald spot,

I of five hundred horsepower
Wail your traditional song.

Your streetwalkers do no fear
Me, and your floodgates wave “hello”

To the bus of tourists passing through.
Ah, a runner has taken root.

An ice cream cone slope droops
With melancholy, or is it something else?

Do not ask me, says the brave city.
Any minute now, I will need a vacation.

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