Reflections

So picture this:

The city throws its hats in puddles;

They do not sink but float.

February thunderstorms, whirlwinds and blizzards;

The tempest of my heartbeat echoes in the temples

And synchronizes with thrumming-thudding teardrops.

And windowpanes shudder in convulsions—

Oh, why is it so very soporific?

The world's an oyster—shells and pearls,

Opposing wills on scales,

Unbalanced, stifling, they undulate,

They percolate into our lives.

The city dwells within its walls. It leaves reflections

In rippling puddles. These spires, towers, dormers...

I am no tourist to this city, not anymore.

But are we friends? I am no stranger,

But are we pals?

The streets are empty, dormant, flooding

With streams of water and my consciousness.

Where to? Quo vadis?

It's eating me, it's feeding me;

Its fading profile in the face of omni-reaching mist

Is lost on me. I'm missing it; I'm failing it.

***

Red rubber boots, offhand, they make their move;

The city sinks in flat, concentric waves.