In the city's Autumn, the earth heaves a sigh
And sheds its green skin in escape,
Trees bleed red, orangey-yellow ichor,
Pain and bliss and sweet relief muddled like watercolors,
And the leaves whisper a beat into the wind
Rebirth. Decay. The beginning and the end.

Just in this Autumn, the gray-faced white-collar workers
Resign themselves to their cycle,
Resolve to work harder, think faster, quit smoking
As they shrug into scratchy tweed overcoats, lift bulky briefcases
(Discomfort, a fair price for conformity.)

Only here in the city, the old man
Sags into the welcoming arms of a peeling paint park bench,
Gazes into the murk of smog above his balding head,
Strains his failing eyes,
And sees a last star shining feebly in the chilling air.

(It may be a helicopter,
He knows this.)
But still he searches.

The soft swish of car tires in dirty rain
Murmurs back-to-work, back-to-work
Into the hearts of man and woman and child
As they drift from sleepy summer dreams
Wrenched from cocoons of lazy dreamy quiet
Into bustling crowds of industry.

Only here in the city, the young girls
Etch worry lines into alabaster and dusky foreheads alike
While they twirl in front of department store mirrors
Model fleecy sweatshirts smelling of cardboard packaging
Neon canvas sneakers with pristine laces.

When the school doors swing open with empty halls full of promise,
When that cool blast of air greets them,
These things will determine their worth.

Smashed cigarette butts in sidewalk cracks
Mingle with spearmint gum smell,
The homeless shrink into the brick walls
Rattling spare change in collection mugs,
and so
In my city's Autumn, the earth heaves a sigh.