112. Lint in the Skyline

Oh I’m just some lint
floating into the breeze
just as I please
through iron-wrought trees
though pigeons demand
intensified care,
I waltz, unaware,
a soft cloud of hair
whose bickers not spent
on icy cold gales,
their breath in my sails,
my stratosphere scales,
such power at hand
cannot keep this fluff down
o’er streets and Uptown
to that bold Times Square sound:
Across skyscrapers’ crowns I soar
though I’m a lint, and nothing more.