Shyscrapers

This city grinds its teeeth
This city and it’s smiling jaws
of lipstick bloodstained red
and the dreamers it draws inside

It grinds its teeth with a sound
not unlike the payment of bills
the savvy scent of cash in hand
the hot sweet lust of a damn good job
and the bitter ashes of expensive taxes

That city ground it’s teeth down long ago
That city where I was
once a port, and now a hole
filled with what once had been
it’s teeth missing, stained, whiskey-yellow
and full of charm and character
now that the smile has no bite

My city has not yet been found.