Dead Months

The City lies in hibernation
It's breathing the rise and fall in elevator shafts
Moans in it’s slumber rattle through copper pipes
Resting behind thin plaster walls
It exhales in clumps of steam
Through the mouths of sewer grates
Smeared with dirty snow around the lips
The buildings dissipate into a thick mist

She sits in an unvarnished wooden chair
And stares out at the rain-blurred view numbly
Her only company the patter of tiny brown droplets
Falling into a chipped pot
Mutters to herself, wishing her car would still start

Meanwhile, across town
A coffee mug takes flight, then shatters against the southern wall
The tenant’s argument upstaging the soap opera
Blaring through the crackle and hiss of television speakers
Her face is painted a dozen different shades of blue
A pitiful portrait of a miserable mistake

Cab driver swung a wrong turn again
A satellite spun another tall tale to the cracking GPS
The leaking styrofoam coffee cup just stares dumbly from the dash
His mind's a clutter of storm warnings and strip malls
Life's a blur of slow nights and snow falls
Cab driver, he knows you can't evade the Ferryman's fare

The streets fill with drifts and abandoned dreams,
Goodbyes frozen in time that will never completely thaw
Love letter obituaries stuck tight to lamp posts,
Next to copies of missing children and lost puppies
The City is God, and everynight we murmur barely-audible prayers in hope for something more
Bible verses spill and pour from machines in the paperwork cathedral
Citizens slow-march down Main Street each and every mourning
The Mayor leads the solemn procession 
Thurible swings between his holy hands
The glass and stone will offer us salvation
If only we keep orthodox

Tomorrow she will still sit in inertia
And make lists of places she would like to go but never will
Across town, he's ran out of cups and mugs to throw
So he lobs her Grandmother's porcelain vase
Tones of red are being coated over the blue
The telephone is soliciting, but will never be picked up
When the sun rises as a soft glow on the horizon
The cabbie's car will be crawling its way home
A lonesome yellow beacon, ringing in the new day
He will get back to his all too cheap apartment
And pour himself a warm drink with stiff hands
Passing out on the piss-stained sofa before 9AM
The City is God, and we are the faithful
Blind and forgotten