This is not a poem dedicated to the sky or the colour of the ocean.
Nor is it a poem about aerial displays of an eagle
or the wind brushing the flowery collar of a blouse.
This is a poem about grey, grey walls,
concrete grey, grey lives and the incessant screams of phones.
This is a poem about gaping bins spewing rubbish
and consuming the consumed. This is a poem about raising glasses
to toast achievements and making speeches about speeches.
This is a poem about life minus trees and gardens
a poem where we walk far on treadmills going nowhere.