Skeletal wooden frames,
    clad in the night’s inky veil

bend and quiver against
    breaths blown from Ural lungs.

Tractors of success rip
    asphalt from dying streets;

while streetlights mourn
    the birth of tomorrow’s decay.

And as two bottles of gin
    sway into each other's way

the stench of ambition’s
    corpse pollutes the air.