Original Poetry: Urban Dwellers

Two fat brown rats
      harvest Wicker Park’s morsels:
community garden tomatoes,
      waste from pampered corgis,
an abandoned burrito.
      Their comings and goings
in the star-hiding glow
      of night reveal the despoilment
and entrance to a nest
      writhing with musky bodies.
It’s lined with sidewalk sale notices,
      wrappers, a commuter’s shredded
Starbucks venti cup.

           ***

Musty pigeons settle
      with concrete dust
beneath the elevated tracks—
      loitering. The birds
disperse like a newspaper
      caught in the wind.

           ***

The morning rush hour train
      is ripe with jostling commuters
intent on their i-Pods or feigning
      interest on ads
circumscribing the ceiling.
      The downtown stations scatter
and gather the people. Debris
      is pushed to the periphery.
 
 
 
 
 
[Check out other original poems here.]

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