Smell of cigarettes and dust combined
Dryness of the air, papers left behind
Next floor does not give any change
It’s still within the dry smoke range
That’s where you begin to see
The streets from up above
Floor Four and Five
The ground below
Along with parked cars and playground
Making world keep turning round
Then usually there’s a roof,
But we’re going with the groove.
So going on – Floor Six
Already perfect mix
Of view that quenches thirst
And winded gust of mind
Floor Seven, Eight
Your stare above the birds flight range
Believing that things sure can be changed
If you’d see words through piece of glass
Not dark, annoying net…
Floor Nine – sure keeps a secret.
The smoke smell and cigarette butts
Closed doors and random mutts
Then there are other floors
With open or closed doors.
Floor Twenty One –
You feel above the world
Below are cars, people and smog
And maybe you could make a blog
About the beauty of this road
And you feel thirsty,
Coffee in hand, observing towering land
As skyscrapers crowd around
With people working – combusting compound.
Grey streets below,
All is for show,
You are awaiting them to start the chat,
To learn from top brass – how and what.
You forgot your bag.
Back to floor on the ground.
You walk out the door and pace around
It changes every time,
From busy streets in City Thameslink line
To groggy soggy old town crime
There are deserted empty lines
Of roads and pavements
Leading, stretching, aching
Deep inside the heart.
No longer are strange cities
The odd folk.
Now you’re the alien, within this line of work.