Above the crisscrossed roofs and chimneys
coal smoke towers form a tusk,
that rises high as sails on sail boats
and blocks the light before the dusk,
that fog o’er yonder will don its thick coat
once the sun is slain,
my iron lungs will cough it up
and breathe it in again.
Beneath the bridge the vagrant dwellers
pray for rum to take them home
and line their guts as warm as leather,
stolen, from their fat kings throne,
tonight they know they die together,
though dying’s not the plan,
yet each king’s shilling in their hands
will pay the ferry man.
©️ 2022 Lathen Griffiths