The smog Sings to the city: A collection

Taxi, Age 7

The pollution caked in between

The rotational, sensational

Inter-galactic, matter

Of fact

Devices that Take Me from

Place Two Place; Help

The world (oh, sweet, world)

Go round.

Building, Age 107

A creak, crack of steel

Burns with the fires

Of past years and beers

And I take a shuddering breath

As A faucet drip, drops on floor

Sixteen and the scent of liars

Mingle with Miss More’s

Game shows. It’s jumbled.

They say she has won a year’s

Supply of laundry detergent.

Verity Smith, Age 27

I pull out my perfectly,

Perfect leather bound

Dictionary and flip

To the good ‘ole “L”s.

Under the word Lonely,

There is The Countryside.

I underline the Word and

Cross it out

For the sake of argument.