The hours pass like cars in traffic
so that the day is stuck between noon and evening.
A hundred thousand watch it founder,
with eyes dulled and sleeves rolled to the elbow.
The air is no great river, as it can be-
so sharp is the smell of dust and perspiration.
This is a strange place,
a forest of steel and palm trees and neon signs,
half flickered out.
Carpeted in dust and sin,
it beckons the dreamer,
seduces and binds the hopeless.
It is the land of diamonds
It is the land of starving starlets.
In its heart of hearts
is a wee orange apartment who houses
a flat, marvelously outfitted with a screened window
that lets in the dust
and this sunless heat.
One orange jumble of plaster
in a sea of the lost and seeking.
It is where the cars pass like hours in a long day.
No comments:
Post a Comment