Pain of the City vol. 1

                              The leftovers of the morning were stale by the afternoon. My crusted eyelids sealed shut much too soon. Bread crumbs, old newspaper, and pigeon wings. Who knows what one must pay for these things? The sacrifices I've made along public benches in the urban parks, where the sun casts shadows over jungle-gyms, swing sets, and undercover liaison officers. Father and son in the daytime of their own existence. A rebellious adolescent smoking  a mentholated cigarette beneath the cover of trees,. hiding from the familiarity of authority. The mystery and desire of love and sex at a primitive age. Puberty increases the severity of mood swings from joy to rage. The wind blows the post lunch hour breeze from the center of town to the outskirts of the city. What did you have at the Italian restaurant? now isn't it a pity? The outside tables covered by a thinly designed cloth of a western material. The table surfaces aligned with the proper arrangement of  condiment holders, metal utensils, and paper napkins that'll blow with the wind, or rub-up upon your skin.         
                               One's irritation increases gradually towards  the end of a decade,. parallel with the sights and sounds of the mangled streets. The vendors are onto something. Nothing is free among the natives of destruction. Just ask one of them, they'll tell you stories of politicians and humidity. "Oh did he die, well isn't it a pity",. echoes through the headlines of the obituaries. I can already see my reflection on the cemetery lawn near the garden at dusk. The animals held captive in the city zoo are hip to the tourists, they do not smile at the attempted souvenired silhouettes. Interchangeable they are with their sun caps and visors. Descending from the excitement to now being tired. Though what am I, to put a damper on all that's transpired?. Just getting more and more low and never higher. Confusion's not the only circuit that's being hot-wired around here. Not to bring up the Jackson prostitutes on 15th Street and fifty-cent beer.
                           Someone's got to make a buck around here. Why don't you telephone me dear when the evening's over?, and remind me of what I love. The emotional investments made among the backyard light bulbs have dimmed throughout rain storms and puddled garbage. The mud you and your fiance forgot to plan about, preliminary spring. But what do I say about pink ribbons innocent females wear in their hair to Sunday School?  The same thing I said to their parents,."I pity the fools",.to keep an intelligence boxed into the American Dream. Say what you'd like little girl,.but all the ice cream sundaes in the world won't wish away these things.