The tattooed lady

Train tracks like a tattoo
Down the arm of my city
Bogged down in boom time
Every house tells
Of another boom that flared
Then died
Cities aren’t trees
They are built for industry
Not for beauty
Or the practicality
Of water and air
Or even sunlight
She’s a tattooed lady
With children sucking
At her teat
I don’t judge her
Bark and leaves
Aren’t much fun to eat

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