That City Dream

All the night vindictive rain
Has lashed and bashed my window-pane.
Twenty stories high above
A city that I do not love
I have not slept. I’ve lain disturbed
By thoughts that reason has not curbed,
Thoughts unsettlingly extreme:
That city dream: 

There’s a fatberg in the sewer,
And there’s petrol in the air,
There’s a mother in a tower block
Who’s too stoned to care.
There is vomit on the pavement;
There are rats beneath the floor;
There’s a rage for jihad boiling
In the boy next door.

The moneylenders flourish;
There are creeps in the police.
Some parents train their children
To be morbidly obese.
In front of brash and trashy shops
Young beggars whine and wheedle.
That ash-faced girl has anguished eyes
And no friend but a needle.

There’s a cockroach in the cornflakes;
There are drunkards on the streets;
There’s a vicar spends his morning
Writing homophobic tweets.
There’s explosive in a rucksack;
There’s a dogma that corrodes.
Yes, this could be the morning
When the boy next door explodes.

Dervla Ramaswamy

If you have any comments on this poem, Dervla Ramaswamy would be pleased to hear from you.