Woolgatherings

10

My city does not dream, homage to Anne Michaels

My city does not dream Its foundations long ago crumbled and withered away like ashes from blast furnaces. The dreams of the working class lie broken extinguished overnight and long before their prime. Rusty remnants litter the countryside; giant rats make nests in abandoned Mill buildings, an open wound bled dry and scarring this landscape I pass each day. Especially ugly in wintertime, when barren trees offer no concealment. Till one day years away, a tiny finger points out the window of an SUV built with steel from foreign lands. In sing-song says, “What’s that daddy?” no reply, he doesn’t know.

R. Milan Gura

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