The City

As mist gently fell on bare branches,

The dreary clouds matched the expression

Of the laugh-less crowd as the brushed by wet benches,

Yellow like the yield sign making cars stop.

 

Black birds sing good morning, while the clouds rumble

As coffee and cigarettes fill the air.

Smog transcends from cars,

Brown like the puddles in which rain boots plop.

 

People rush down the sidewalk, some pause

Shouting, “how are you!” to long lost friends,

Who shout, “I’m sorry I have to go” in reply,

Grey and distant like the smell of raindrops.

 

The city hustling, bustling, contaminating

Those to crave more money than they can spend

Just as leafy vines intertwine with dead trees,

Black like the clock tower that sits atop.

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