Beneath the City

Buses groaned beneath, predictable lines on asphalt. Someone’s coffee cup,
left behind on a bench. Lipstick on the rim,
unseen, forgotten.

Pigeons swarmed,
their dance unnoticed,
except by me.

Rain tapped on metal,
its own rhythm.

A stranger fixed their hat. Walked with purpose.

The diner cook emerged,
cigarette in hand. At three,
smoke curled like questions.

Graffiti shifted on walls,
faded stories.

The city spun,
unaware of the watcher above. I noted it all,
the stillness a kind of rebellion.

A moment of beauty,
sharp enough to hurt. Still here,
aching for every sunrise.

--Vera