I comb through the accent of my adolescent street views and patterns.
Deciphering the moral compass that orients its existence.
In morse code street peddlers dot, dit, and dash cash flows
Bringing movement to our traffic jammed economy.
This is a revolt against our arrested feats.
Pinned down political beats, whose sub frequencies have yet to reach.
The core of our congestion.
When did age become a Congressional Medal of Honor?
A badge, championing the survival from the battlefields we reside in.
We so used to celebrating in the storm that we’ve discovered brightness in the nighttime.
So what are we left to do when the sun rises?
Do we shrivel or sing in excitement?
This too shall pass.
It’s a scene, I’m reminded.
Photo Credit: Theodis Houston