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.
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