Wounded

The foliage is shyly undressing itself while
all of nature slows its footsteps in its beauty.
The public spaces are polite and quiet,
people in light coats read alone on benches
while couples go on walks around the downtown
never spending any money.

The meters have all been removed and so
have all the toll roads and the numbers in
New York that read like codes you find
on grocery items no one understands.

Party plans turn into free for alls where walls
are not considered and the dancing mixes
dryly with the fighting and the midnight
songs are brightly colored fires
lit by liars knowing things can never last.

I don’t believe in signing casts because
the wounded deserve much more than just
our names. I think that things can’t help
but change as the cold collects her shoulders
and she leans against she railing over
every blinking light that flickers out just as
so many more begin.

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