He's already drunk 

On the morning commute 


She's higher than the clouds 

It's not lunchtime yet 


We turn our noses up 

We tolerate

On our way to work 


But they're still here 

They still pay their rent

We still charge them extra for guac 


New York is no place to judge 

It's fair game 


A blood bath of survival 

A faithless town of refugees 


We need hope in something 

But can't look past people 


The buildings cover the skies 

Even the parks can't maintain isolation 


It's sad 


They don't see a future 

Except promotions and studios 


New restaurants and parties 

Are momentary distractions 

From the mouse hiding under the sink 

PoetryLily MoeComment