Inner City Blues

by Kirsty Niven

If we leave the windows open at night,

we can hear the chaos of the city playing out

like the sea captured in a seashell.

The wash of the cars on gushing roads,

the serenading of un-spayed cats—

drunken cackles a jazz style percussion.

Saturday’s soundscape skips like vinyl,

silence interrupted with each party’s end.

Arguments float upwards, helium balloons,

until each overinflated ego pops explosively.

Gotham grunge trickling down the drains,

until shop shutters screech open at daybreak.