The silhouetted giants reach their steel fingers to the sky,
threatening to tear out the stars of the natural heaven
and replace them with their artificial light.
Now the night can have its sun, they laugh, and
even darkness will not hinder us.
But dawn, that sweet tempered challenger,
can’t help but shout. Glances are drawn upwards again
as the marigold dawn pulls down the manufactured reign.
A gale sweeps through the narrow streets,
a hundred scents caught up in an indistinguishable city aroma.
Cinnamon gum is chewed by the one with fat fingers,
too stubby and young to skillfully manipulate the ball
that is tossed to him on the last freshly hewn patch of grass.
The father of his father smells lily, like the one he gave
to his high school sweetheart, the one she wore with white
so long ago, when each scent was traceable
and when today was a tomorrow not even imagined.
Two wrinkled hands are joined, the elder guiding the young.
He has seen many stars disappear, replaced by something
altogether too near. The gale of city smog beats against his door,
goading the giants to laughter as they rise again,
but behind the weather beaten door the man is joined
by many as they laugh. They are the ones playing the joke,
chuckling at cheap farce that will one day be replaced by
endless day, when uncountable tomorrows cannot be imagined.