Blooming in December

It was in December, A cold foggy night .

The concrete street was cold.

Littered with rain and glowing lights.

The sidewalk cracking, clearly old

Torn away by the weather,

And the polished shoes of a working-class men.

I looked upon the crowd at the dull faces.

Scurrying about throughout the city.

They moved as if they had no time,

As if 24 hours in a day was not good enough.

They did not have time for the light to turn red.

Oh how that used to scare me!

Fancy people darting in between rushing cars!

The honking horns The pattering of shoes,

The cursed words and flicking hand motion.

Eyes that rolled and the teeth that smacked.

For some reason always screaming into a phone.

I stared into a puddle that rest in a dip of concrete.

My face was young and full of life.

But for some reason their’s was not the same.

Will that be me in due time?

Will turn into the street walkers?

The careless street walkers.

Or will I be that flower that blooms in December?