Melted Ice, Poem 008-2023-0407

Night in the city has a strange sound
The way roof ice speaks before it melts,
Pools down,
Rushes gutters,
Raises the river’s rage below me.

Melted ice flows over my boot tops,
Down interwoven streets with city signs that claim they take us to
Somewhere,
Anywhere,
Everywhere that is nowhere
If you choose to sit and lean
Closer to the flickering light that distracts your notions.

Your diversion’s surround-sound voices tell you how to think.
They muffle the important sounds outside your curtained windows
Of me,
Of us,
Of melted ice.

Thanks for reading my poem.

That’s all for now. Peace and love, everyone.

Steve, 4/7/2023