This City

10: 00 p.m.
I walk under streetlights
across concrete, perfectly damp.
I hear the music of the passing cars.
I feel the pain of invisible stars.
A woman singing from a distant corner
sets the tone for my evening quest.
Her voice is hard to pull from the masses.
This is my city. I do my best.
12: 00 a.m.
I walk under neon
across grates that breathe with steam.
I hear the roaring of a helpless skyscraper.
I feel the tension in abandoned newspaper.
A happy couple looking out at the water
sets the tone for my midnight quest.
Their true expressions are lost in the masses.
This is my city. I do my best.
3: 00 a.m.
I walk against red lights —
empty streets, dead with grief.
I hear the dripping of an endless leak.
I feel the pain in this heart I seek.
A lone car in a parking structure
sets the tone for my endless quest.
I can’t quite hear if she’s laughing or crying.
This is my city. I do my best.