They say we’re in the City of Wonder.
As if there’s something amazing or captivating about this
city.

But we’re not.  It’s just another misconception; more
bull for us to choke on.
Preferred names: City of Thunder, City of Blunder, City of
the Younger.

Thousands of people, pins in the pavement
Flock for one space. Bursting the bubbles that label us
private,
Where the pocket-pinchers were easily noticed and the feet
were safe from those larger.
The horns and chatter and engines soothed the City into a
deafening mumble.
Ring-ring-ringing. “Hello” to the thousandth
conversation the ancient buildings are subjected to.
The golden sun takes refuge behind it’s pillow, can’t
bear the chaos.
The migraine that moves as quick as an ant’s nest. But the
day is over.
And now, the ball of cheese rises,
To guard the precious poisoned pity below.

The blue twinkles blind the mess spilling from the pounding
thunder in desolate streets,
But the twinkles never arrive alone. No they couldn’t,
it’s not how it works.
Without their piercing partner, they are worthless; as
effective as holding a lamp out a 20 floor flat window.
And they scare they mess into order,
And those who blunder are carted away for a secured night
alone.
Slammer or hospital bed? That’s yet to be decided.
And the younger smash open the bottomless jar of
stereotype.
They’re just yobs or thugs or hooligans or anti-socialists
who the dirt will eat for breakfast.
No-one feels safe anymore, everyone watches their back.
Dark characters roam, dodging the streetlights that patrol
their pavements.
And every man for himself sheltered with the cover of the
dyed cotton blanket.

Maybe I missed the meaning of “Wonder.”