Paint

The new pail of paint
unopened
in the old shed

A familiar city
still standing
a little shattered
quite worn
and embarrassed
 of its blemished
unwashed face,
 littered sidewalks
where loitering weeds
seep into the soil
and petrify the bloom
until the shaken petals fall
and become another statistic

the mouth of the town
muted,
stuffed with degrading profanity
and tobacco smoke
cancer grabbing the throat
and claiming centuries of stories
new souls will never learn


Marathon runners
chasing after Euphoria
they can hear her
laughing in the distance
so they run further
run harder
with hearts beating up
neglected  streets...

hit and run
hit and run
don't look back to
see the dying cry over the dead
their dread will slow the paces
keep your gaze ahead

But when the runners reach the cliff
they won't know which way to turn
the laughter they heard
is an echo
thrown from glove to glove
in a field of Gods
that won't let them play

and somewhere miles behind
is the new paint
still in the old shed
wishing someone would
throw it on the city
and dress it fresh
so it can see its own reflection in the river
stand proudly
and once again feel pretty