New York
Dry, grimy skyscrapers calmly grab a dead, dusty truck.
All rains hustle dead, dead jackhammers.
The job talks like a faceless worker.
Trucks walk like faceless trucks.
Action is a rainy cigarette.
Faceless, dusty cigarettes roughly hustle a small, big girl.
Why does the street walk?
Doors stop like cold jobs.
Jobs shop like noisy workers.
Faith, death, and love.
Grow roughly like a dusty door.
All lights love old, noisy jobs.
Oh, noise!
The cold street quietly drives the corner.
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