A balcony above a city
a gallery filled with express food,
and disposable people.
A yellow ‘M’ glares at passers.
It shines it’s eerie light
on the indigenous of the street.
They sleep, compressed in all
their destitute,
shying away from arrogantly sympathetic stares.
And on this balcony,
above a city of refuse and glorified rot,
your eyes are the only real warmth I see.