The streets aren't empty,
the asphalt bare and broken,
CRACKED,
last night's late night lost,
wandered pushing shopping carts
Always Uphill,
or drove vehicles in an altered state
to spite the spate of heavy handed
darkness, that has fallen,

dripping with tears and fallen stars.

the carts they push
bear their baggage
where
recent and ancient
traditions, of if
you find it is yours,
if it fits in the cart
it is yours,
if no one else
takes it from
you,
it is yours...

it is all yours
the ticks of the clock that talk,
while running silent while running digital,

the cars that drive are
great big bubbles of
inattention, what comes,
goes, arriving as it leaves,
like bad grammar,
everyone notices, but dare not correct,
for the mage of road rage, casts
a spell of ill-temper,
shot by bullets for this temper,
on a hot August afternoon.

Looking forward to see if September Sundays, will be sombre or sobering...