Saturday, March 07, 2009

The Human Condition

A lipstick-stained filtered cigarette
Rolling in the wind
Across cold asphalt road
A flash of red hair
Contrasts a bleak Monday morning.

The canyon walls above
Block sunlight
Casting shadow on people below
Where is the happiness? With the trudge to their jobs
What is their expectation?

Keys clack upon touch
Screens illuminate faces
Faces and books stare back
"What are you doing right now?"
Dreams of faraway resorts fill imagi-nations.

A glimmer of sunshine
A glimmer of hope breaks forth at noonday
The coldness returns in time
Time in transit; time commutes home
This is the the human condition.

3 comments:

Ann said...

Great poem!!!

Just a Prairie Boy said...

Thank you,Ann.

Anonymous said...

I liked your poem very much...grr