The Mad Midwest

The obscured sun shone through

in filthy white strands

reflecting off of tinted skyline windows

washed a million times by scruffy men on trapeze.

The pigeons stared down

with pointless black eyes

on the people

as they defecated

on hard trampled sidewalk.

10,000 eyes searched the exhaust billowing streets

for something like an angel

but all that could be seen

were the finches bathing in metallic pools.

Yet the artists,

the evangelicals

and the drunkards

waited for a second coming,

for an eastern star

as men in black and khaki overcoats

hurried and taxied

into an eternity of rotating doors

spinning like roulette balls

lost deep within the game.

The sun died

and was resurrected

but all that came

was the Saturday morning newspaper

thrown clumsily on the step.