I looked for the sky this morning,
I threw my head towards it,
But I couldn’t see it,
It was blocked,
Obstructed with
cement and bricks
narrow and restricted
to a tiny strip
the sky,
the size of a bow tie,
tightly knotted around a
city banker’s neck,
as he drinks Prosecc.
Oh.
Where is it?
Where is the sky?
I see only cranes,
Swaying arms,
holding lighters
To the music of Crashing and Upheaval.
It was then that I noticed,
A man with
a protruding,
red, hairy stomach,
popping the buttons
of his stained white shirt,
and fraying his blue and white rosette.
He was leaning out of an enormous window,
of a dark immaculate flat,
dangling his hat,
He was dribbling and loud,
But shouted clear and proud,
‘The Sky, The Sky
Anyone to buy?
Anyone to buy the sky?’
