Member-only story
Prose Poetry
The City Never Sits
The pounding keeps it awake
The city never sits. It stands on swollen ankles, rubbing its tired back, purple veins rising up its skirt. Exhausted, it can’t rest. It must remain alert.
Boys turned men at 16 sleep on its heels, caked with grime. Their pillows are gum from little boys’ mouths and spit from bigger ones in suits. Ladies leave heel marks on their hands, black-and-blue promises of fleeting attention, just enough to throw some dimes and forget.
The city’s stomach churns. Moneymakers meet up-and-comers in dimly lit bars, swapping spit and fingerprints. Acid burns through emaciated starlets, their meals replaced with empty promises that five more pounds will make the difference.
The rich reside in its throat, savoring decadence. Victorian soufflés and brownstone brownies are served on pristine platters. Yet, outside, the sweet taste on their teeth succumbs to something stronger. They shove silk scarves in their noses, trying to ignore the sour stench seeping from sidewalk cracks.
To the East, you’ll find the city’s outstretched arm. The red-eyed residents feel its pulse beneath their feet. Dishwashers, dancers, and drivers stroll down rutted veins, drawn into the city only to be cast out again before sunrise.
