wasn't art

by Geoffrey Aitken

some people

still can’t grasp it.

can’t make head

nor tail,

in the unfathomability

of a cold concrete urban block.

do not know, how to ask

if the street sweeper’s okay

on days when the leaf blower

goes on and on

as if every single one is a page

from a book of instructions

targeting the gutter.

some people fail to see

why passengers don’t have tickets

on public transport to the city.

awkwardly notice they’re wondering

what was under the stark, grey-scale council paint

on the factory wall

in the light industrial zone. and, today, of all days

in the ageless city

it is not easy

making moments last

in the odd epic night

after working

a full week.

my tired drawing-office,

setting

jigsaw pieces

completing puzzles

during another

non-descript day

gradually identifying

i belong

in a larger picture

having worked

a lifetime in parts

payment and time

equal to slices

of diminishing sanity

exchanged for metaphor

to bandage damages.

one more beer before home; moon gravity temporarily on board

jaded is a memory

mornings do eventually dawn.

routine waits in line

for the day’s sanity.

branded cereal

coffee

bread bred

to think

and hurry

patterns

better suiting

contemporary design

for the now

of city life

while i create

minimalist poetry

as if to escape

tradition