The Skyscrapers are so high, they seem to touch the passing sky.Freely the puffy white clouds fly, with the birds, mile-high. A high-flying pigeon peeks down from it's perch on a high-rise. The temperature, high eighties, a clock blinks three thirty-five. Tupac bumping from the speakers stock, Pandora blaring from a jukebox. Mercedes windows rattle, when the speakers knock, like forte knots. The sound carries for blocks, but its blocked. By the hustle and bustle of the pavement blocks. Cold streets, paroled by even colder cops. The city never sleeps, so the crime never stops. Hustler’s hustle from the sun up until it drops. Making Wall street money off of these inner city blocks. The ghetto is a project that needs to stop. A homeless man, donation cup in hand, “The American Dream, needs a real back up plan.” Read the sign, by his cardboard stand. His blind dog, named Stan, rusty dog tags hang. He shares and wears the same struggles on his coat, as does the man. Chanel shoes, and big ***** on the cover of a Magazine stand, getting more attention than this wise dog, and this old man.
