Wandering with careless muddied steps, I
squish the gluttonous ground all drunk with rain
in this city where the puddles never dry
and the leaf-crammed gutters never drain
‘cept for a fleeting fist of golden weeks
when the sun visits all brilliant and vain.
And we, like foolish girls, believe him when he speaks
false promises and sings his lying rhymes
then he, rakish and easily bored, sneaks
unseen to warmer, more familiar, climes.
The city’s left all wan and wallowing
while the drab-clothed sky weeps over his crimes.
For nine months, we go begging, borrowing,
and the lecher sun somehow builds his following.
The Prodigal Sun: a poem about how we love the Sun despite his philandering
