Caustic Wine

This is the city of dreams,

not for their fulfillment,

but for those that it consumed

and passed down as heirloom;

you can see these on the streets at half past seven,

bare fists thumping clueless dashboards —

their existence a mere silhouette now

against the floodlights of expectation

that burn through in cyclic motion —

Red Light, yellow light, Go.