Mere

The traffic hisses by,
snaking its way
through the wet streets,
slithering along side
dripping facades and
canopies of advertisements.
Rain-soaked workers
scurry around like ants
before a storm.

Passing cars sheet water
onto the sidewalk
where the only thing
grateful for the deluge
is a small patch of dirt
holding city-bred weeds;
like the last soldiers
of a dying, defeated army,
they stand proud and defiant.

City sidewalks can
only breed weeds.
Trees and ornamentals
die exhaust-fume deaths.
The same could apply
to us living here.
We are survivors,
the weeds of humanity,
clinging to the sidewalk of civility.

I watch her high stepping
over the puddle-patched pavement,
as she makes her way
to our rendezvous point.
She looks abstract,
distorted through the
scum-soaked windows.
I see flashes of pink flesh
as her skirt rises up.

The lion in me stirs;
if I were king of this grimy jungle,
she would be the reason
why I’d get up each morning
and spend the day hunting.
Knowing she was waiting
would be enough
to give me all the stamina
to chase down a fully grown beast.

So I toss back a coffee
with the footprint
of a small third world nation
and wait for her arrival.
As I do, I wonder when it will all end,
this glorious mess called civilisation.
Then I’d rule the roost
instead of merely
sharing the lease.