Sick as it approaches, sick as it departs. <br />In fall the hulks of burned out houses stand unrazed. <br />In winter bearded with fire truck ice they stand unrazed. <br />The ice cream maker, the piano tuner, the ceramist and tile engraver,— <br />The belovèd craftsmen turn up killed at their work places. <br />And the river, stingy, greedy, shrinks and enlarges. <br />And bumper stickers protest how people like it here. The hated city. <br />And the loved city? Only at a distance can it be loved. <br />How else do those mean little squares and boulevards sprouting their haystraw weeds <br />Become the Champs-Elysées and Princes Street, except in memory? <br />Shadowy byways and alleys, wildflower chain linked lots <br />Where a lover turned and smiled and did more than kiss, <br />And corners where small hilarities gathered, teasing, <br />But singing in unison,—these map happiness. <br />The hated city. The loved city. The same city.<br /><br />Mark Jarman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tale-of-two-cities-2/
