City

It pours,the traffic
 like an assault of practice
on psychological termites,
 like tearing posters of endless
roads right from under the sun's frock

 places of birth have been
misplaced
  One after the other,in memory
for there are no lions
in this place,who return
   to be kings

  Cardboard boxes on the roadside
 shudder with an emotional capacity
       the short, thundering lives, chase
 on a stomach full evening,
    when the gay overlords of town
  smash sleeplessness into
     awakenings
   from the boredom of imagining
 better lives,
    A middle aged man,sits
by the street tossing his one good shoe
   in the air,feeling warm
  and unsound with a fear
     of being asked to cross the street