Manholes
The city is freckled, pockmarked with openings
that lead to subterranean chasms:
manholes mar the streets like giant thumbprints,
grates grab heels in their lattice,
sewers and drains exhale white clouds
of god knows what. What happens
down there, in inky tunnels and bricked caves?
Are there rats? Villains in cloaks?
More likely, workers in bright orange suits,
Astronauts of the earth.
"The city is freckled" LOVE!!! Posting your fave poem tomorrow.
ReplyDeleteSomething draws me to the element of color in this poem: the grey of the grates, the white clouds, the orange suits.
ReplyDelete