An Early Winter Morning in Atlanta

The frost on the highway medians
melts into mist at the first touch
of morning,
steam drifts up from
the sewer vents.

Graft echoes through
the streets
like the sunlight
reflecting from
the glass faced monoliths.

Underneath a marble monument
a King’s dream lies forgotten,
its hope twisted into
perverted idealism
and political catchphrases.

Suicide fences are installed
on the bridges
over the interstates,
but not on the ones over
the chattahoochee,
screwing up traffic a greater concern
than a hopeless body floating

Some things are difficult
to notice
bumper to bumper
at eighty miles per hour.

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Filed under Poetry

Some of what I write is true, some is fiction; most is merely possibility.

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