There is no visible city crow circling
this sky, blackened by smog, by night.
But I am here. Are the little wings crippled
or is this the loneliness of my pillows?
I demand your daily tribute of smiles when
the sun is up high, in that skyscraper. That window
glass cleaner is blocking my sight. Yet, she does not care,
of the printer's being out of paper.
If the power goes out while in a lift, don't panic.
I will enjoy the drift. Who knows? This could be
my black sky.
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