street walkers

in the shadow of the sun
I walk into the city's symphonies
a purple coat a broken window
a sky lost on too many busy people
a girl walks, without looking
mind blank of a destination
void of purpose or parameters
in her eyes there exist no curbs, nor walks
nor streets, nor racing cars
only forward motion
noise is endless, watchfulness leaks into every corner
tainting nay pocket of silence that boils up
out of unbearable frustration
the winter noon sun sits distractedly on the shoulder blades of the buildings
nudging the chimneys in boredom
the sky is the color of dirty ice
its spittle settles in every crevice
a man with no name pulls his collar over his jaw
and he cries for the cold
in the long game of dress up, this woman runs in every race
and her cashmere tissues float to the ground behind her
in chronic dramatic finales
the stories are endless and they float around each person
possessing the qualities of smoke, wind, tentacles, and cacophony
the stories breed disillusion, chivalry, intimacy, luxury, and isolation