Lunchtime and the city
releases us, gasping
for unrecycled air
but lungs filling with smog,
today’s egg sandwiches
already gone soggy,
while the plaza is packed
by slim cut suits and ties.

Traffic swerves and screeches,
the acrid tang of rubber
fighting with the perfume
of women racing off:
secretaries who kiss
their middle managers
in musty hotel rooms,
smelling of alcohol.

So please will you calm down
because as you can see
through my office windows,
down there far beneath us,
the city carries on,
its interlocking gears
still grinding tirelessly
despite our nakedness.

This is a reprint of work originally published in The Cadaverine.

Ian Chung

This entry was posted in Poetry, Reprint and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

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