The City Sings Its Song

The city sings its song, luring me to belong to an orchestra of many faces, living within tight places, an efficiency on the tenth floor where I hear my neighbors snore, smells of spaghetti and garlic bread linger throughout hallway making me dread microwaving a T.V. dinner with plastic reminding me of my uncomfortable gastric indigestion which lasts for a day and finally goes away and does not stay. The city sings its song to me who steps along on its dirty sidewalks with cracks, being weed-free it lacks, rushing to catch a taxi or bus, waving away and making a fuss, I am in a perpetual hurry. like a busy-body squirrel in a scurry, all my self-importance doesn't matter, looking at my watch only to splatter on the city pavement when hit by a car, eventually leaving the hospital with a long scar. as the city sings its song, it is truly about all the things gone wrong.