Member Poem

The year the City curled up,
went to sleep,
and died
I reached out to grab at
the corners of the wind.

I peeled back the curtain;
the motion picture skyline
was only a painting after all.
A gunshot wound through
canvas revealed only blank screen.

The concrete and metallic,
a city combusted into ruins.
Feeding only greed:
swallowing it whole or
chewing you up and
spitting you right back out.

The year the City died
we laid in the cradle of the
beast and reminisced on its
first baby steps as we watched
it weaken and wither away.

The year the City died
we all missed the funeral.
No one showed up to the
memorial service or sprinkled
the remains in the river. We made
snow angels in the falling ash,
knelt in the debris, prayed for
redemption instead of sitting shiva.

We packed up our bags how you do
when you know it’s over for good.
But those who could never leave
bathed in the basins of flaming tar,
walked to the edge of the island
where the landfill drops off
into the contaminated bay of
lost dreams and sunken promises.