Concrete Jungle

Concrete Jungle

Concrete Jungle

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Concrete Jungle

My SUV is parked between the faded
yellow lines in my underground parkade,
I watch their faces much the same, no surprise
of boredom as we walk into apartment living,
like chess pieces taken from the bored of life
we wander, lost souls with grocery bags and
wine bottles, hoping that insanity will get us
through the night till morning, where we face
another day of working class in the big city.

Out mail boxes are keyed and emptied as we
toss the flyers we didn’t ask for, nor the mail
man cared a shit when he placed them there,
we told him trees must be saved, so stop
placing this sad paper born of strife between
the metal boxes we call our savior filled with
bills and nonsense that keep us awake at night,
I separate the bills from the people who care
with letters they pen to this poet of no
acclaim.

So many faces in this complex of evil that live
lives of desperation from pay check to pay
check and dress their parts of success and
poverty, hiding their real worth behind glass
doors and mirrors. I press the elevator button
UP and it’s faded from the acid finger tips that
press it so often.

It arrives and bodies move in and look up, not
at each other but at the dam illuminated floor
indicator as it changes every second, screaming
what floor would you like people, who press
another world they hide from
by masquerading as tenant
dwellers dressed in styles that
offer up a variety of temperaments and
disguise.

Avoiding eye contact with fear that they may
release who they are and their privacy
invaded for a second, they do not want to show
that they to are F@ck%ng bored with life and
gave up their dreams so long ago, and now are
stuck between the ribbons of cement in the
working class concrete jungle.

© Copyright Vincent Moore. All Rights Reserved.


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