Cities All Have Their Landmarks, Poem by john o'connell

cities all have their landmarks;
towers, opera houses, momuments.
the centre that holds the crowds
and snares the tourists.

the novel condensed in a poem -
pedestrians vaguely distant in all their mundane mysteries
as traffic is brought to a standstill;
no shortage of Ulysses roaming
the endless canals of endless streets.

all stages set for various productions -
here a robbery and there a murder;
melting into each other sin and sorrow.
enschrined and entombed culture
and 'sophisticated' glamour and nuances.

everthing narrowed down
or lost in bedlam,
hell and eternal rest.
the washing-on-the-line native
or the Dante-like student
schratching his own back in the dark
while fighting with pots and pans
in a remote attic.

usually fresh at dawn,
stinking by noon
and filthy come the evening -
thirst quenched by the age-old
elixir of dark inviting parks,
a 'come-hither' smile
black stockings and a slit up the skirt.