The city has a melancholy air,
Its history shown through the faded cracks
On dead marquees long since gone, past repair.
Even the bright glass building somehow lacks
A sense of self-elation or of cheer.
Where sunlight ought to naturally flow,
Reflecting some suspicion of a clear,
Sharp hope, instead unlikely shadows grow
As if the glass were possibly opaque
Or sunbeams could fall flat. The hazy sky
Is cloudless, yet not blue. Can sadness take
The color from the world? Here it will try,
And as I wander through the dreariness
I must suspect that it has had success.
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