High Rises
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Poem
High rises grow from the city like weeds.
Concrete is supple soil if
the gardener is nurturing and ruthless.
Living things need both to blossom.
The fruit the buildings bare
drips down the stem and
plops onto the street:
Men tired of being husbands,
tired of being daddies,
moguls off to run their empires,
the old rich and
nannies upon nannies,
weary eyes and curled like
bleeding hearts under the weight
of leaving their children behind
always, always in worse hands.
more by NOELLE CURRIE
photograph by Vladimir Kudinov
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