City (or In which I try to write again)

Someday, maybe, I'll stand and look back

At this city, at this time where you and I

Made stories out of cardboard boxes

And laid them bare under rainy skies.

This dusty city of dustier bylanes where

I saw traffic lights change colour in your eyes

And this time when we drank rum

In paper cups; the air littered with fireflies.

This city of melting roads bursting at their seams

Will always be ours to sigh over, and cry over

In spite of all the roads that wait to be walked

And all the maps your feet need to cover.

Of course it floods under ten minute rains

And burns under the stench of old tyres

But it has seen us lean in midnight stupors

And watched us blow off, and burn in our domestic fires.