You know them well, those
tamed and well trained city pups.
The dunners and yappers
replete in pinstripe and penury;
the high polish of their John Lobbs,
scattering the pigeons
pecking at scraps.
It’s like a conveyor belt,
stiff armed, shoulder bowed,
heads like nodding dogs,
coming and going in servitude,
as from the tunnel a dragon roars,
beckoning with it’s open jaws.
Often, as is the city’s wont, it rains,
and the black, bobbing cloud that snaps
to attention seems impenetrable
when viewed from the high tables
on the thirtieth floor; though on
careful inspection, there are gaps,
a scattering of crumbs.
Sometimes, the sun shines through;
when it does, there are those who
glean an understanding of how a man
can enjoy the soil trapped beneath
cracked and weathered fingernails;
how he can trace each precious little
seed to its final windblown rest.
Mostly though, ‘it’s just the way it is,’
they say, not really understanding
the synergy between balance
sheet and an affair of the heart.
The thrill of each new day becoming
lost to the limits of stagnated imagination,
in the same way as limitless possibilities
become caught in the intractable web of
And thus, pleasantly and presentably
seated, almost nobody looks around.
Instead, dunning and yapping in concert,
they lap at crumbs of comfort that
fall from those higher tables;
Time caught, as child and avarice collide
across horizons infinitely wide;
whilst back and forth the profits stream,
just out of reach, as in a dream