The City's a Woman...

She rises from a rumpled bed,
outstretched arms above her head;
rustled hair is loose and awry,
sheet pushed aside with a sensuous sigh.

She is the dark and sullen homes
on rundown streets with unwashed rooms;
she is the busy suited career
with cultured voice and hair austere.

She is the crowded commuter train,
the storefront dim and the disabled lame;
the buildings tall and the streets below
that teem with people who move and flow.

Then when the daylight hours are done,
she lets down her hair to look for fun;
reddens her lips and brightens her eyes,
puts on her high-heeled pumps' disguise.

She moves through the bars, lifts her glass,
now she's a hussy, wanton and crass;
she is a woman during hours of light,
but changes to female for darkness of night.

The city's a woman, lovely and free,
who changes her skin like the changing sea;
laughing and lazy whenever she will,
ready and anxious all dreams to fulfill.
     ©  Joyce P. Hale 

Photo by J.P.Hale