I Flew into Seattle December by Nicholas Ingalls

I flew into Seattle December.

Rain spattered the bumpy black asphalt hills.

Driving up the walls to a set of large

Elegant houses painted in money.

Passing a lonely park, an idle

Merry-go-round erect in the black sand

Tries to spark a light in my mind, long days
Of boredom, swinging and running. Waiting.
Faces walk on a slender, straight road. Where
are they going? Home to share Christmas with
Family? Impossible, no one smiles.
Too long has the grey blanket stood over
The city. Sunlight a rare occurrence.
Driving down town to go shopping. Highways
Like concrete spider webs through the tall trees.
Tall metallic trees that touch the sky, black,
grey, brown, blend into the monotonous
background that is the air. Sadness now turns
to anger. An army of cars frozen
in place, no where to go, unable to
move. Horns fill the air, staccato burst of
malevolent intent. REI waits
for us below. The iconic colored
letters of the sign, the only color
to be seen for miles. Inside the cashiers
stand like con artists, ready to take each
and every cent out of you wallet.
Coupons that can’t be used this visit, but
Expire in a week. The fake smiles on
Each face, a cheap plastic mask of pyrite.

______________________________________

I Flew into Denver April

By Adrian C. Louis b. 1946

 

I flew into Denver April.

Rock salt and sand peppered the asphalt

reflecting myself on a downtown street

where I’d paused on my route to smell lilacs.

The wanton winds chortled wickedly

over remnant snows in gray clumps of doom

and my heart soared gladly at winter’s death

but an hour later I had whiskey breath

at a dead end bar full of Indians.

A Winnebago woman waltzed with me

and told me how handsome I truly was

so I bought her drinks and felt her hips

and somewhere between the grinds

and dips she lifted my wallet and split.