Crime of town,
land beneath concrete, down,
glare occupies cemented cream,
boots tick, sing to public,
trees figured, the likes of cubic,
clean, no leaf rested,
like trash in smutty cans, isolated.
No soil, not a trace
there, ‘in museum’. Am I supposed to embrace?
look, on roof, that 100 storey building,
a garden, soil, flowery thing,
lovely. Can I also have a tree?
No, they’re obscure, don’t you see!
Why? then what sustains land per Se,
concrete, it’s a cliche.
Some time, after a week
aggressing drops, on my cheek,
heavily pounding, one of the worst,
clouds broke, hailing cloudburst
crammed sophisticated schemes
jammed ‘let go’ systems, concrete topped off with streams,
flooding in flash, thundered below,
splash, bunking boots, traces of soil, solo
descending from roof, remember the solicited garden,
trash afloat, leaves too. What? That’s ludicrous! Isn’t it urban
No, not today, sorrier than rural
precluded joy, live carnage of people
acclivity of water
escalating, nothing seems to better
faces in dismay, can’t assure lurking tear,
such is the wrath of water, severe.
Incited by prompt “Thunderstorms, Floods and Water Fury“