In this City

Beyond this fence, is a valley.
A valley, we once ran through, every day.
Between the moments of our lives;
even, when we were not going
anywhere, in particular.

And now, this street is a prison,
narrow, cramped, and inescapable,
but for a few who can still travel,
from here to there.

To see trees -- and not be able to touch them,
is a punishment in itself.
To see the sun stretch a band across that ridge
while here, it conspires
with buildings, and fences,
to keep us in shadow --
is a torture for the creative soul.

This is not freedom,
to pace back and forth,
along one stretch of gravel
and asphalt,
day after day,
to home and work,
and back again.

It is modern misery.