Spikes of frost quiver in nostrils,
lonely windows weep coloured gems.
Christmas lights and violent shadows
prepare to celebrate the New Year.
Antennae perched on gray slate roofs
sway mournfully, musically in the wind.
Empty bottles roll along dismal streets,
and ulcered gums lose blackened teeth.
We arrive at the Victoria Bridge
avoiding dreary derelicts, sprawling, crawling.
Human stepping stones, pawns leading to
riches where accents are the rulers.
Such eloquent screams boom as cannons
from those righteous few who rule the land.
Yet cannot compete with the wailings of
ships' fog horns, worker's cries for equality.
Laughter squeaks to clinkings of glasses
overflowing with quiet measured merriment.
Frost melts for a second and skeletons
pay homage to Time, to Auld Lang Syne.
We gulp in gallons for those lost years
when freedom could have belonged to us.
Thick mucous sticks in our throats and in our
lungs choking us as we gasp for breath.