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Poem

The terminal prophesised an eternal line
 of moving faces arriving at their destination,
 mothers hold their screaming babies
as the business guys drank their coffee
 like insomniac puppets on strings
valleys n lagoons of young children and elderly folk
 all moved in a singular motion
 to a melee of sound buzzing above their heads
 a hubbub of civilisation on soap dish.          
Back to life with the old soul and the funky dollar bill
 like genoas khan lost in new York city
 with new York city blues,
 watching the jet planes fly above the mass of buildings
 circling the weather stations in New Orleans
 in autumn winds and summer rain in Chicago
 floating like clouds with its over whelming usual conscience
  Towering over towers of old motor’s
 with junk yard hands on the dog 
and the women drinking buds swearing at a elderly man 
for having a faulty back tire on his bike 
and the look of hell shaved fear on his face,
 used to be in Korea and nam probably still thinks he is.

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