Glass and Grit
The skyline hums electric—
a vertebrae of glass, stitched with neon threads,
while below, the bones of the city rattle in rust,
tendrils of smoke curling from metal barrels
where cold hands reach for warmth,
for something more than fading embers.
Down here, the asphalt speaks in tongues,
cracked syllables where soles sink deep,
where gutters choke on yesterday’s rain,
where the moon pools in shattered bottles,
reflecting towers that drink the stars
while mouths below run dry.
A train howls through the arteries of wealth,
carrying silk-stitched briefcases, eyes fixed forward,
but on the platform, a man counts crumpled bills
like a priest handling relics—
whispering the gospel of enough, enough, enough
but it is never quite.
The divide is drawn in currency and concrete,
a city of two mouths—one devouring, one begging,
one with a tongue of silver, the other bitten raw.
Between them, only glass, only doors that lock,
only silence between the footsteps.
And yet, the wind moves through both streets the same.
The same city, the same sky,
but some sleep beneath chandeliers,
and others, beneath the flickering halo of a streetlamp,
praying it will not rain.