From the widespread blackouts
to the districts’ neon-bright,
a low voltage of anxiety
crackles through the night.
—I am this city.
In the pulse of stalled traffic,
through the sirens’ angry weave,
under lonely concrete bridges
I sometimes sit and grieve.
Then midnight sends her repair crews
to patch the potholes deep
all down my memory lane,
while subconscious consoles sleep.
Applause trembles in my ribs,
a protest locks my jaw
this fractured municipality
is what I’m rooting for.
What this city dares to admit;
the details of its trauma;
the bus route takes a detour
as service restored, much warmer.
Inspired after reading Maia’s Diaries
Today’s Daily Stoic poem:
