You’re too measured.
And grown tired. In a rather silky voice,
light as air, you’ve skirted
what has weighed us down.
Is this portentous?
Maybe there’ll be no more sparring.
Indeed that’s over,
even if there’s a contemplative air
above the cataclysm.
I stared at your cigar,
the color of cinnamon–
ash casually dropped,
the air thick now, tobacco filling
up our thin lungs.
Prompt: Write a poem that uses the the word “urban” as an adjective, preferably in the title. That is Writer’s Digest Day Day 7 prompt. As an added challenge you should try to evoke a mood. I find that that actually results in a better poem. Why? Because everything’s a mood.
Don’t forget to tie your poem to Red Wolf Journal’s theme: Song Of Myself.