Hearts and Flowers

If you’ve seen the lion’s tooth

piercing the pavement flags,

know that its roots

are turning concrete

to sand.

You’ll know the city’s hearts

decorate shadow streets

- with tags for names

in lurid spray paint

on bricks.

There is urban romance

gilding the hollow shops:

the sun makes odd

rainbows in puddles

of oil.

I hear the mongrels sing,

howling at street-lamp moons

because their light

is always full

but blurred.

A symphony plays on

junkyard instruments

metal on metal

and siren screams

of girls.

Between the luxury

and the tourist traps

are poverty’s weeds,

still growing here,

and now.