Black asphalt offends the dreamer
looking for yellow brick roads.
Under fallen arches the day's heat lies,
and with the fuming of engines waste
the world's filth rises
into needled brains,
scouring misty eyes
and clogging often picked nostrils.
After falling over someone's hardened stone
and smashing my face on an upright log
little vision remains.
Tears are soothing,
still the dirty road continues
and people are everywhere
Copyright © 1981 Abe Flowers
Poems by Abe Flowers