City of Dis

Three yellow cabs
hang from the ceiling
temporarily devoid of mania,
strangely lifeless,
waiting to be released back into mayhem,
occupied by one who dares the city to stop him.

The fluorescent lights of the overpriced Taxi Tune-Up
shine a beacon into the gently misting rain,
soft drops so imperceptible
they nearly, just nearly, glance off your body
but instead ever so subtly settle into your hair, your cheeks, your bones,
quietly drenching you
before you even manage to realize
that you should've used your hot pink umbrella
to shield you from the inevitable cold.

Standing on the edge,
you simply have to place one foot in mid-air -
the other will naturally follow -
to get yourself off of the black stoop,
off of this single step hidden between red walls
shielded by a hard, black awning,
colors that evoke a harlot's secret,
nested across from the lair of the club
that has cloaked itself in security cameras
that dare anyone to mess with those
who chose to join Lucifer
to defend the City of Dis.

Small rat people escape tin cans
that run through sewers,
with heads down they scurry
cloaked in suits,
leather jackets,
taupe dresses covered in the word 'love'
(as if sheer will power can create it),
fur coats
(no, wait, the fur coats exit the manic cabs),
elaborate outfits constructed of newspaper
(a fallen artist's lament),
blue and green striped blazers
donned by mini humans with hair the color of cotton candy,
sunshine, shoeblack, dirt...
they all rush to return to their 4x4 spaces
filled with the absence of desperation
and consequently worth every penny.