Humid scent of soured pavement
rises from a city’s steaming streets
accompanied by rippling gutter streams
babbling and choking on floating debris.
I wave as wet winged voyagers
cling to tawdry, fragile craft
shooting the cobblestone rapids
of Boston’s Beacon Hill.
Wafting from the alleys of the rich -
the detritus of wealth - an acrid stench,
waste, mocking the grumbling bellies
waiting on line at the dingy soup kitchen.
I walk alone among Boston’s “Common”
looking for the “cracks” they “fell” through.
submitted to – Choose A Topic – Heartbreak and Loss
Copyright © John lawless | Year Posted 2017