Frying Pan

Many springs have come and gone, the city roars and wheezes, concrete monsters block the prospect and restrict the balmy breezes. Summers stifle, streets are steaming, hydrants bring some small relief, merchants battle with the street gangs, struggle on in blind belief. Canyons strangle, subways throttle, autumn bleeds in red and gold, chilly now as winter beckons with its shroud of killing cold. Jersey beckons 'cross the river, yet another frying pan, in the cauldron of convection, cradle of the modern man.