The City in May

     
The City in May
 
The casual wounds that men inflict
Can linger on to cause distress.
The grace that blessed the trees has been
Replaced by stunted awkwardness.

The rain, it seems, cannot succeed
In washing grime away from trees.
And even newborn leaves of spring
Are listless, waiting for a breeze.

The beauty, from the streets, is fled
And all that’s left is ugliness.
The elegance is gone – and what
Remains is mostly tawdriness.

******

The sky is robbed of mystery,
The earth is drained of life.
And all that’s left is misery
And dull, unending strife.

In markets, crabs and fishes die
Their slow and tortured deaths.
The frogs and turtles sadly wait,
Till scooped with tongs or nets.

The humans go to work and back.
They’re rushing all the while.
And rarely will you see them pause
To dawdle or to smile.

******

But in Manhattan, devotees
Assemble still, where Mammon stands,
And though His worship now is wired,
The God of Money understands.

He understands, He understands.
He sucks from us what’s left of soul.
And more of wires and waves will weave
The shroud of pain that cloaks the whole.

But there is still, for those with time,
The near and yet-so-distant sea.
When summer comes, I’ll slowly walk
And by those sounding waves, I’ll be.

2014 May 18th, Sun., 11:46 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York