I stroll the Technicolor cityscape in a misty morning mood
When a song wafts by my ears, and forms shapes in alleyways,
On hotel rooftops and unlit balconies,
With a sky holding back all the sun it can manage
To share a waking dream:
I scan the edges of the skyscrapers for smiling children,
Thrilled to be free, with such short memories,
Schools where misunderstandings were forgotten with the breeze
And chanting would bring water from underground.
What grieved us was how inconsiderate
The world was to our echoed laughter
When it started feeling funny
And painted apartment walls a foreign shade of pale.
We were bottled for so many decades of shipping
Between bums begging for pennies
Who burned our oil for a scent more fragrant, not for a warmer fire,
And tossed in free dessert to celebrate our suffering.
Fifty cents from me was fifty cents for them,
Charged to laugh at the foolishness of their passion.
We are now Bedouin in a city that was ours,
Black and White, all hooded to protect us from the scorching dawn.
But the handouts still are yet to come, the tolls and debts postponed for now,
Manners all remain intact –
For the morning call hesitates to bring out those sleeping in some shared known,
Misty streets laid bare for me alone
And for whomever claims that waking urban dream.
Morning's Early Dark 