City Life

The momentary is my daily diet.

A sinking feeling is my gut’s sea level.

I seek the Holy Grail of peace and quiet

But calm and silence normalize the Devil.

All that I grasp, with passion or in rage,

Slips through my hands like powder through a grapnel.

There’s no geography—space is a stage

Where Paris gunshots trigger New York shrapnel.

Nervous by day and trembling in the dark,

I claw at any pleasure that leaves scratches—

Part of an army searching for a spark,

All packed together like a box of matches—

Burning to find a cause that’s worth the fight

And see by more than momentary light.

Copyright 2017 Matthew J Wells