Cities of my heart
An ever-moving flow of souls attempting, succeeding, failing
at making it, it, or it, depending on the day.
The chants of history, sung by street residents and screamed
by soldiers of granite, fighting wars of the past.
A parade of celebrations to cloth the smell of our
boulevards, one for every liquor we have.
The surplus or lack of freedom of our architects, mounting
columns on blocks of passing ugliness, and of traumatic beauty.
A one-legged pigeon trying to mate with every breathing
bag of feathers on royal playgrounds.
The first and last times legends had it, it, or it,
engraved in plaques, or repelled in sewers.
A library, a shop, a bar that time and profit
have spared, because gems don’t need to bling.
The barks and tail waves of cars’ and bicycles’ drivers,
all leashed to their pedals, panting and drooling in their crates.
The purple roses lying on the threshold of the artisan’s
boutique, whose craft had been a soul to the avenue.
A couch who sits through rain and hail, firmly still
on the sidewalk, as tempting as it is noisome.
The metro, tram and train stations, all designed
to inspire fear to most and murder to few.
A grain, a cherry, and mold.
Cities of my heart, one stare up or down closer to Tartarus
Hold your head up, hold your head up.
Lou H. Second is French and has spent the last decade in London and Brussels. They have been writing since they were 16 – poetry, songs, mainly, and, most recently, a novel. They are literally married to the USA. Writer in another life, resurrection pending.