by Bruce Boston
The city is there regardless,
enormous in its conceit,
hard as the stare of a beggar,
sharp as a skyscraper's teeth.
The city is full of power.
Claim it with credit or cash.
Electrons racing to midnight.
Engines igniting the past.
The city is always laughing
at those it harbors and shuns.
The city is rich as a bakery,
thin as a trail of blood.
The city is small as an insect,
immense as the life it contains,
adrift in space like a beacon,
devoured by time and decay.
The city is very terrestrial,
dark and light as it comes.
Stars are strictly for backdrop,
eclipsed by the neon suns.
Appeared in Silver Blade Magazine