In the big city,
The sky turns black every morning.
Black like coffee, truck exhaust.
Strangest thing you ever saw.
People who aren’t from there
Don’t see it, they don’t understand.
Living there, you take it for granted.
It becomes part of your day
Like brunch, or traffic, midnights downtown.
You just grow to expect it, and there it is.
Then you move away, to the countryside
And see that mornings are different
Everywhere you go. Some little towns,
Salty ones, by the water,
The morning is purple, periwinkle
Is the proper word, I think,
And out west, the sky burns
Seven shades of orange before noon.
You go up north, and it’s grey.
All the time grey, always winter.
I’m not making this stuff up, you know.
You can see it for yourself, just buy a ticket.
Then one day, when you go back,
To the big city, I mean,
You see that black morning sky,
Again and for the very first time, it’s odd.
It’s the kind of thing that makes you
Want to quit cigarettes, for sure.
It makes you long for the countryside,
For a baby blue easy breathing sunrise.
And you’ll never look at a pack of smokes
The same, not ever again.
Posted in: Poetry