100x

I
Some say ghosts walk these streets,
some say we are lost:
Mothers have shouted at their children,
and fallen under the second-hand swipe.
Businessmen have snorted, up white mounds of Coca,
and down on the skulls under their shoes.
Students have thrown up, pissed, and convinced themselves
of distorted philosophies, over bollards, and inside phone booths.
Expats have tasted and smelled, travelled; to an unknown
suffused by generations of in-jokes and do-nots.
Secretaries have slipped, into flat soles, out of French windows, and
over binders of address books, and baby toys mauled by teething toddlers.
Fathers have hit, with fists, and folly,
and ripped tickets beside traffic wardens.
Baristas have spat, cried, and confessed
into everything on the menu.
Professors have proselytized, the virginal, the ignorant,
and published to deafening criticism.
Militants‘ dreams of colourless cities and faces,
shrink with the Arctic, into an ocean, with no forgiveness.
Board members, sip on scotch and soda, and side wind
like serpents, to yachts and bikinis, paid by retirement funds.

II

Like other curious occupations, a lab technician,
looks at the smallest parts of the smallest atoms in the wide, wild world:
A politician, bumbling, chuckles as his silver-tongue begins to rust,
blame it on the Earl Grey, the scotch and daddy’s trust fund.
An actress weeps on the stage for glory; no other lover had infatuated
her with a vacancy for such melancholy.
A driving instructor watches, the traffic lights blink,
a ventricle to the veins of vapid city life.
A grocer hears a little laughter, before the click and crack of
a goblin’s gun firing mounds of metal into a father’s back.
A coroner stares at what is to come, the irony of his life
is that he’ll end up where he once, studied, and examined meat on a counter.
A prostitute, smoking on a futon, hears weird whimpering in her bathroom,
and finds her hands holding the businessman who spent his son’s university fund.
A boxer feints left and right, rook to hook his opponent, clean, right in the bishop.
A doctor barks orders when urgency is needed;
the life of a little girl is more than leaving.
A carpenter, cuts and sands with precision, how to
shape time into a table, is the gift his hands have been given.
A builder piles high, not bricks, but slots where memories
are imbedded, from a child to their wedding day.
Some say ghosts walk these streets.
But under the microscope
At least we are free.

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