The suffocating of simplicity

An aeroplane vies with a gull
to pull a piece from the sky
and at six of the clock
a crane stands
idly by.

It irritates me
that on the old church
the steeple still perches
precariously,
as if a balance between
good and evil.

My lips have sinned
pressed tight to the picture
of what might have been,

and the picture leans
like the towers in my dreams
as purple latticework clouds
crowd my view.

I am watching with you as the
morning breaks through
the veils of the night
where
they build cities of concrete
and steel
with hearts that can’t feel,
but
each artery a
part of me, the
veins that run through me.

the city
concrete and steel.

Passengers.

He sits in his iPhone
as if it’s a new home
seeing it all on the screen.

© 2017, John Smallshaw.