Sign Yellow

A city made of almost broken bricks: 
sign yellow, 
and dingy pizza parlors.

There are less people walking on the streets, 
and more cracks in the pavement. 

The fluorescent yellow blares, 
screeching commands that only clutter 
the solemn wind with echoes. 

I sit on a creaky dock 
with an icecream cone 
and clothes plundered from
the second hand shop across the street. 

The omnipresent wind
tickles the emptiness 
and I find myself 
watching my tears 
fall into the ocean below.