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Dalia |
Wind soars around high buildings, screaming,
kicking up dust particles into eyes.
Walls smell of years of cigarette smoke.
A President’s portrait hangs over the heads of a populace.
Cabinets groan from swelling.
They splinter,
Exploding with an aged archive,
Their knots like bunions split,
and they kick up the dust of today.
Dank concrete retains its urine smell;
Echoes of voices are thrown around cold corners.
II.
Why should she find counsel here?
It is not our job to do any of that.
We haven’t turned around.
Maybe someone can take her as a pity case.
She is okay with any avenue.
We can also talk about her in the third person.
Shuffle her over to us.
We will decide what to do.
I can arrange for her to see them after I first prioritize the ones behind her and then if they are willing she can wait and then I will come back if she is still here and then they can plan to meet and then contact me and she can go and I will wait and then return before
She can have the chance to decide
III.
The bare angry sun melts wounds,
blurring the wounds of a cramped crowd.
Turnstiles and metal detectors filter the wicked.
Concrete stairs connect the labyrinth of an administration.
Moldy splinters pierce the essence of a bureaucracy.
Damp bills circulate
into the hands of uniformed turnstile and metal detector chaff.
Labels: Dalia
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