This City Is Not Finished With Me Yet Poem by Raj Dronamraju

I lay on a bed of cold concrete
While the goodbye people conduct social positioning that will be reversed later
I gave up on them but they did not give up on me

Bicycle underlings gather at the turnstile revoked
To listen to hairless demagogues of autumn mock the fragile bouquet of reason
I gave up on them but they did not give up on me

Eyeless in the potato room, the spasm passes quickly but will return
Here there is thunderous blood and sweat from unacknowledged gladiators
I gave up on them but they did not give up on me

Giving up on terraced houses and sudden hills that shoot straight up in angular lengths that do not extend excessively
Riverside walking paths where I hugged ground and grass
And received blown kisses from blue skies and dandelions

I did not want to live any longer as a comfortable wretch and as part of the establishment of hidden simplicity
Not defeated but outclassed for a moment of pessimism
I thought "my time" was a popular chorus with a deadline
But this city is not finished with me yet