I find whimsy in my city,
where my path is predetermined by the sidestepping of my sneakers
around the broken glass littering the sidewalk
and the old wads of gum that have become a part of the concrete,
and time becomes a function of the passing of buses.

The air does not ring with the eerie chimes of carousels,
but the horizon tilts irreverently nonetheless,
and in the silent alleys where sit lonely dumpsters
and abandoned trash
they become part of the cacophony.

The sidewalk glitters with its silver-flecked greys
and abandoned change that waits to be picked up
and later left again in the cardboard boxes
of the old men with the blues,
as the city sings their music.

Power runs in wires high above wide green fields,
in the bowels of abandoned buildings and sullied streets
and in the currents of the creeks,
while its spindly fingers crawl the mazes of the city core
in black and grey and patent leather.

I find whimsy in my city
where the sky becomes gridlines of blue
around the upward gazes of skyscrapers
and the asphalt trickles, a sluggish river,
and time becomes a function of the passing of buses.