Robert Verdon, #399, glass day

glass day, hammer me,

it says, I’m tough,

and tenacious

as a kitten’s claw

rough and gracious as a weed

blooming at the base

of a skyscraper marked for demolition

moths disturbed today

complain and flutter away

the river shines like lip salve

the doors of green trams and perception squeak open

androgynous silent passengers emerge

from revels, sickle moons heading for a quiet time

the air is still and warm and burnished

the city streets are brushed like teeth

jobs in sensible uniforms take over

someone tunes a 5-string banjo

another tarts up a begging sign

with a red star and a birch tree

a normal neoliberal morning unfolds

stepped over by the high and the mighty

until noon, comfortable as broken chalk

on the blackboard of youth,

when with luck the market pubs will not be overfull,

despite it being Christmas and Hanukkah too.