A rusting pile of iron ore
lies on the floor for purposes unknown.
Down on the block an old gamecock
has found himself upon the clock and flown.
While whistles sigh and poets die,
the people cry for more or less the same.
Rebounding sound drifts to the ground,
is swept round into corners like a game.
The city’s streets are all swap meets
where cheats and grounded fleets waste precious time.
In theory things are dreary but,
like everywhere, one’s gotta make a dime.
It’s not enough when things are tough
to get by on just trickery and guile.
Sometimes when gods or demons call your bluff,
you’ve got to roam the underground awhile.