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Facsimile City
Curbs are kicking back,
roads haven risen, fallen,
the avenues are tarred
and feathered thick with quills.
Quickened are facsimiles
of those who used to walk
the streets' uneven pavement,
leaving trails of trodden,
slickened slime from vats
where they'd been produced
to stand in for the dwellers.
Skies lit red with meteors
which we are ignoring
by means of screen and covered ears,
and all the shrieking billboards.
The day draws the shades,
the sun begins to plummet,
and beneath the massing shadow,
we do battle with our facade:
concede to maintain,
and continue on our way.
