Poem: Sunday in the City

The city in the rain
on Sunday morning is
clean, a little less mean.
Heaven opens, sharp showers take away
all of Saturday’s leftover pain.

Gutters flow in rhythm,
creating a gentle melody,
as dirt is hunted
and rinsed down drains.
The streets volume down

a notch but for a lonely beep
of a waiting taxi jeep.
Avenues are dreaming,
all traffic lights green.
Seekers of madness are all asleep.

As it nears seven
a hungover bus engine awakes.

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