10.15.2013

The Song On The Old Brick Mural

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
The sound of tires on gravel, and I am in the city again
If I could be but lukewarm, but either hot or cold I am
And even the open spaces are cramped and cluttered
They must needs smaller cars, who has not uttered
These words when forced to park in such a place
Other than the people, hardly but a human face
Is to be greeted among the countless eyes
And the boxes and poles which in the plaza lies

I think it is a garden of Le Corbusier
And endless construction makes the dusty air
Probably smudge the windows with dunny grit
And all of this is not quite the half of it
This plaza was paid for by someone of note
But for the use of plazas it has not my vote
Nowhere to sit, and to walk is to turn
The location of occluded paths one must learn

It makes me wonder who would love such a place
If we would consider it to have such a face
As these would love? To consider her eyes
Knowing a relation of well stationed lies
Fidelity is a position there just most politic
If we could guess just how she would tick
And him who would love her, shabby or fair
In his office, a fine photo of her there

But withdrawing I find the roads but a clog
Though certainly I see yet no trace of smog
And passing with verve from her outer ring
Of ruins and towers and hotels I swing
My head to the left and am assured of his spouse
For with alack they construct a gambling house
And endless they toil on progress' wheel
Unsmitten, from under its axis I steal.

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