"Error from Babel mutters in the places,
Cities apart, where now we word our failures:
Hatred and guilt have left us without language
that might have led to discourse

William Meredeth"

Melancholia

I too see the gray of skies, made so in our
reflection of urbane hues, a brittle chill
no matter what indian summer it is
or whose blood we boiled to keep warm
is pervasive and all consuming
.
I saw down the street a boy, 16 perhaps
who decided survival over ruled integrity
and became a he-whore to businessmen,
doctors, cab drivers and scavengers
who were lonely for taboo things
.
He sat next to a poet pecking for scraps
of bread and pizza, afraid of the police
who would roust him from his ivory tower
dulled to so many shades of melancholy
because the business guild forbade solicitation
.
There, the mountains loomed
there, was refuge for those huddled, those poor,
those yawping masses yearning to scream need
but the bus only ran on days which ended in money
and too many hands twice shy from biting