In the city again
and it feels less novel than ever.

In the city again
waking up in my lovers bed,
she is still and soft like a loaf of bread.

In the city again
where people who are
busy, breathless and caffeinated
do not say hello.

In the city again
Where weeds wither on
a green roundabout,
where posh elongated vowels  
assault my ears
like a cold blue breeze.

In the city again
where political graffiti
and the same 3 tags
cover all like a blanket,
where yellow buses dissolve into the night.

In the city again
Where ancient corduroy clad men
stumble out of churches,
Where a secretary leaves a memo
for the manger,
where tinkers temp tourists
Onto a horsedrawncart.

In the city again
under the days dark weight again,
where we all attain
the usual filth under the fingernails.

In the city again
and it feels almost like a home.