Andrew Foreman Poet Prose Poetry

This Concrete Place

this concrete place,
splashed across low hills,
like a snowball
dropped from a tree,
access roads,
feed and draw
blood, exhaust, hope,
in ceaseless action,
lights, recycled air,
announced hurry hurry,
these crowded lives 
of impatient luggage,
frustrated by plastic smiles
and jet-lag weight,
made for wonder,
that eager escape,
a sad, temporary space
played out
like a garden's folly,
a lonely leaving,
a welcome home,
borne on impossible wings.

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