An ambulance like a scalded cat goes by,
People stare as if it’s a new thing,
Before some eejit hits it,
As if it can save itself.
I
Buses stops and they cheer!
But only in the summer.
People cross roads,
In all directions,
Cannot choose one.
Firecrackers crackle somewhere,
Loud, but not evanescent.
Flags swing along the wind. Like they are the new wind chimes indicating how strong the wind can be. Green and blue flags, holding onto their sticks. The earthy colours. They observe the city silently flailing above people’s heads as raindrops bounce off their heads. When are the raindrops not falling? There’s water there and there’s water here, falling down over and over, but where does it go? The city is rotten and mouldy.
II
Grey clouds haunting the skies all day,
Halloween decorations are up.
Have to do both,
Hit the parking meter,
And hit the floor.
Hearing languages on the streets,
Their sirens are the same,
Crying for people to move away.
Mayes Time building is now a stupid Centra.
Green just like the mouldy green.
Pedestrian crossing beeps repeatedly,
They go on red, not on green.
What is wrong with you and me?
III
People are dining inside the wishbone restaurant. Clinking cutlery along the songs. The restaurant with black walls and black aprons. The chef cooks and waiters serve. Like an endless cycle of food. People sit in front of people, meeting for different reasons. Friends, family, lovers or acquaintances. It smells delicious.
People under umbrellas, walking fast.
Looking at it in shock, the rain.
Sirens blaring behind, leaving a trail.
Sun rays playing hide and seek again.
Tall trees on the sidewalk side by side.
That yellow door in between grey doors,
That’s the one you are looking for.
IV
There are reflections of moving cars on glass windows. And also, of moving people. Also, of moving seagulls and clouds. Like an alternate reality. Transparent and everyone can see through. Perfect for this city. People are not blind, and the city is transparent. All the reflections are pretty clear. The red shop on the corner has the aroma of freshly baked pizza in the air. It slows down people. Hypnotizing. All the delivery boys stand in a line. Then there is that yellow excavator. Picking up fallen debris of that half-demolished building. Someone must have lived there at one point. The excavator is always doing that. Especially in the morning. It’s like an alarm. A reminder. But it needs to do what it needs to do. Car tires screech on the road too. These roads are old, and so is everything else. And the cars too, most of them.
They add some green here and there.
They don’t even care anymore.
They stand together though,
or at least pretend to.
They wish for recovery in their minds.
To everything and everyone.
Walking with their hoods up, they keep disappearing.