Living out of backpacks, suitcases, rucksacks.
Sleeping on park benches, and in between the cracks
of the pavement.
Overhead you can hear
the screams and the cheers
the schooners full of beer dripping
in between the cracks.
Greasing up the train wheels then leaving them to rust,
seeping through the asphalt and turning rain to dust.
Discordance and anomie.
A forced slow dance with the enemy.
Stand at traffic lights in silence while the sirens sigh at violence.
Cars align on the motorway
afraid to merge into the right lane.
Living through the latest update from the weather forecast cloudy with a chance of painful sorrow, with intermittent showers of alcohol.
The sun barely splinters through the clouds but the crowds they never stop,
for time is always running shorter than the ticking of the clock.
And out came the rain and flushed the cider out.
Bourbon still churning in the stomachs of businessmen, louts.
Eardrums ringing from the sounds of soothe-singing,
tinges of breath left from overzealous whispers of the night before.
I wake up and the light floods into the tank of glass and brick and timber and cement I call home.