Sycamore

Three syllables
No less pleasing
Rolling off

The tongue, yet
Possessing
A soupcon

Of economy more
Being four
Letters lighter

Dense as devils food
Lacking elbow room
Between the last

Two beats
Ninety feet
Bottom to top

Eighty
Odd years
Young and leaning

Against
Our house
Telltale

Leg of a timid
Giant trying
To squeeze himself

Into a moment
Ragged leafy breathing
Giving him away

English Plane
My tree guy
Says sideways so

We crane
Our necks
Squinting

Up at undeniable
Quiet dignity
Where shabbiness

Once prevailed
Rule Britannia! shading  
All of our tomorrows.

In the misty morning air
The click clopping of shoes
Upon wet cement
Sets my mind
into a musical cadence.
Each drop of rain
Lands in perfect rythym,
Every swoosh of a tire
Lends a crescendo.
A song heard
Time and again.
Born of the monotony
Of one day into the next,
Of one foot in front of the other
Of stories told and retold.
In the shabbiness of the
Morning air
The sun tries
to b link through the clouds
So it can burn through
The frozen humanity
That no longer
Gives a scrap of bread
To a stranger.
I watch as silhouettes
Dance between rain drops
Then scurry into shelter.
The click clopping of sboes
On wet cement has faded
To a stark and silent
Breath of time.

my soul is a city
it looks like glistening sky lights, picturesque advertisements, and phosphorescent open signs
its sky contains twinkling constellations of stars hidden behind pollution and street lights
it has it's 5 o clock rush hours, 1 am parties, and 3 am sleepy time
it is divided into areas of charm, abandonment, and shabbiness
it holds crime, but there also innovation, prosperity, and thriving ideas
it is abided by eccentricity and idiosyncrasies
it is accepting of a variety of colors, beliefs, and characters
it holds unknown places, discovered by those who were willing to explore
it is visited by millions, but only some dwell, some leave an impact, some fall in love
and it is open for people to call it home

The words we say to you
aren’t strictly true
as much as they do
what we want them to

shaped and spun
with hidden gears
so when they reach ears they fit
K-chick!
neatly settling
without drawing attention
to the shabbiness
and moth holes

Look here my good man!

Hand shadows dancing
on a bright screen
hiding meaning
in dumb show gestures
of duck quacks and rabbit concerns

In Oz, the wizard’s heart came good,
behind our curtain
you’ll just find avarice
and certainty
that a brief, gout ridden future
means more to us than you