The buildings wear their armor,
gunmetal gray;
brick and stone and mortar
wrapped around steel bodies.
But when rough waters invade,
Skywalkers must wake early,
flush with rosy dawn,
to rise above the decay
with their dry clothes on,
ropes and ladders strung to their sides,
to build what their children
will one day walk upon.
And when the stink
of death and rot
grows too strong below them,
they reach in their back pockets,
squirt a nasal spray:
peppermint mixed with pity;
this has always been the fate
of their city,
but they ask forgiveness
for being the ones who
didn’t drift away.
After all, the sky’s the limit,
and they didn’t die today.
©2024 | K.F. Hartless
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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