The power cables gripped the sky
In a way that complemented the waste of the industry beyond.
The picture, the model, of our progressive relativity.

Here, some hundred feet away,
Nothing felt better or looked more intriguing
Than the success of one thousand fractured factions
Of the last aspiring metropolis that existed here:

Forms of open fields,
Snow covered hills laid our for sledding
And the hope of the farmer watching his children make
Use of his land

Purchases only of fellow,
Human, tidings
Still were primarily represented in the metropolis of
My childhood
That will never resurrect.
And I still wish that I had been able to enjoy it
Just a little bit more.

Because here, the sidewalk leads me
Into the becoming of my personal age.
And the dying child inside of me still hates the feeling
Of the grass between his toes.
He still hates the thought of never becoming someone older.

How busy it felt to
Walk with one foot in the grass and one foot in the sidewalk!
And reeking of juxstaposition,
Feel the grass between my socks and shoes,
And walk with cement between my toes.

Graciously moving forward,
Graciously thinking backward.