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Poem

On the streets of Kamora,
	a man sits at the Fountain of Angels,
	eying the days offerings
	which lie at the bottom
	of the tepid water.
The man remembers when he was 
	one of the click clacking masses,
	on their way to work,
	in the Main Dome of Kamora,
	ready to pass ordinances
	which allowed dogs on leashes in the park,
	bettering and improving the city,
	keeping it cobblestones,
	which were erected in eras past.
The man remembers losing his position
	and being put on the street 
	because the cost of living in Kamora came too high.
He sits where he can,
	sleeps where he can
	eats what he can.
The underbelly of Kamora is paved with grease and dirt.
The great unwashed populate the parks at night.
No clickety clacks.
	more ting tinging and swish swash.
The man notices all the details of Kamora,
	what he was too busy to notice in “better” times.
The mosaics of the great buildings 
	with the echoes of it’s former prominence.
Not the tiles of the great shopping center
	which resides in a newfangled
	behemoth of a building.
The birds in the belfry
	and still the click clacking of those who work.
The man swoops up a handful of silver and copper coins
	and notices the faces of Kamora’s founders 
	on the bottom of the fountain.
Like an onion,
	the city unfolds with new revelations,
	while the man sits and waits,
	watching the clickety clacks
	and the ting tinging swish swashes.

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