If possible, please use the attatchment; that's the form I wanted the poem to be in. But I have it in the post just in case the attatchment doesn't work for you.
There, are rumbling streets. Rumbling streets. Rumbling
tracks, rumbling skies, rumbling waters. There, are
whistling cars, whistling pots, whistling kids, whistling
whistles. There, are screeching brakes and voices.
There, are strident peddlers, signs; skipping feet, classes;
grim mouths, scenes; crazy activists, wards. There,
scraped knees, scraped skies. There, manufactured trees,
neglected lawns. There, window washers, shopping.
There, colored lights on streets and stages; uniformed officers,
uniformed attendants; noise on every corner, on every
corner a café. There, are grimy slums, spotless luxury;
there, is sleek and squat. There, tattered and pristine.
There, are painted streets, painted halls; music halls, street
musicians. There, we find an underground world as
busy with rats as people, parks and alleys with dogs and
cats, and individuals much like them. There, is life.
There are rumbling, whistling, screeching, strident, skipping
grim, crazy, scraped, artificial, neglected, washed,
shopped, colored, uniform, noisy, grimy, spotless, sleek,
stumpy, painted, musical, busy, lively cities.
