Where the Streets Have No Name

Much like my old canvas bag, 

The sky has turned gray again.

It's been pouring, Drop after Drop.

Time has begun to etch its worthlessness,

Claiming all that was left out in the rain.

They drag their feet,

Those dirty white tufts of cloud.

Like old men with radios, the nasal voice cackling through.

Riding on the restless waves, They enter you through your eyes.

Open you at the seems and expose all your lies.

 The sky has turned gray again.

Raindrops like little bubbles of floating angry dogs.
They jump, they lick, they yawn till they fall,

And think to themselves, 

"If only we had thumbs, maybe we could crawl!"

Nameless children huddle on heaps of discard,

On bright pink plastics and green glass shard.

The shy girls,

Smile their toothy smile.

The boys hang around for a while.

Their kurtis compensates,

For the garden there never will be.

They look at you with question filled saucers,

"Do you think we'll ever see the sea?"

  I spy on them with my one big eye,
I can see their mouth water for the machhli fry!
They huddle even closer and peek through the bars.

Sometimes they look right through you,

Sometimes they just stare at the cars.

They claw at the glass,

Their oil slick hair pulled right back.

Traces of red on the nails,

Which the dirt turned black.

 Their eyes glimmer like shimmery black fish,

If you threw a coin in.

Liquid shadows flickering in the corner,

Would make it sink right in.

They climb up,

They slide down.

They slip through the teeth,

And when they fall they frown.

The sky has turned gray again,

Right upon the streets that have no name.

On bright pink plastics and green glass shard.

Everyday looks the same.