What about the puddles of water on the asphalt, arrogantly stepped on by business men,
cursed at by women with high heels and tight skirts. Trickles
of water are dragged along by leather shoes and wheels.
All they do is wait to dry up.
What ever happened to the song of the sky, falling slowly
on days our trees become thirsty. Our weeks have gone cold,
the sound of the city buses help us forget that
our puddles need to nourish our dry lips and burnt skin.