I have no tears for the polluters and their endless tattoo, ode to mediocrity.
That they make grey their air and button down their uniforms so stiffly, stiflingly, strangled to their frames;
That they gossip in shadows and tighten their belts at the feast;
That they never will awaken most certainly from those endless dreary days, melting as contrived plastic, cooling solidifying a battle of brown.
Not on my street will I allow the deadened crowd, when not one face may offer me spark or spray;
That the cogs in their mind grow rusty and limit their thoughts still more as they age;
That their middle ground is consuming, seething, gloating even grinning and fooling them into waste. Waste ---
light. dull. ground. returning no flower or smile.
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