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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, freezing 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.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2016




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Date: 3/6/2016 8:12:00 PM
even though i am a city person through and through, i love your description of city life here and the last verse is absolutely wonderful. as always, your rhyme and rhythm are spot-on, keith...
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Keith Bickerstaffe
Date: 3/11/2016 1:33:00 PM
Thanks Ilene! I'm more of a small town person myself. Best wishes, Keith

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