Boardwalks

City skirts
Stained with fruity vomit
Differently wearing day to night
Every chunk a scene of not owning what
Is what the thing that's letting go
There is no holding on
For man is not as flammable as a canvas
More fickle than a pen
From plank to plank
Ever the growing whitewashed stains
A midst the growth of dying
So we stroll and sit and laugh and cry
Throw change into the breeze
The temperature can come to a blaze
Held into no handout toward a bank's thirst
The birds don't give a damn about our human metals
Flesh torn for tearing dollars
How could we eat without the sands
Then those don't drink without living
Refused to be what being is
Giving stabs for what is plenty
The boardwalk holds a world of air

poem by: m.e.l.