Oh, how easy it must be
to pride yourself on the line
formed at your foot
when you lack awareness
of its nature, its through-ness
Taking rotations
brought high by your motion
at the peak
afforded a view of the
desolate, crumbling city you inhabit
many fleeing after the first glimpse
others needing more convincing
"just one more spin"
but in the end
none stay
Still
you blame
the supposedly fickle hearts
of men and women alike
finding the image of
your George Washington Gale
in their departing silhouettes
but have you ever noticed
the likeness of your shadow
to the emptiest number?
I thought not
Easier to find them
the demon
in your sparkling town
than to find yourself
a novel attraction
in their metropolis of life
One day
with chipped paint
and rusted bolts
you will find yourself
too tired to revolve any longer
inertia holding your stillness
close, a dead man's grip
A kindred soul, with an ache
in their bones
will walk
at their own pace
through the queue, feet falling
where children once stood,
waiting eagerly for your allowance
The cemetery walker
will find a low
still
seat, and
settle.
They will be spared
the bird's eye exhibition
of the abandoned streets
the husks of industry
the empty parks
but
still
your city remains
and if you are lucky
they will stay
still.