Emily Dimov-Gottshall The City What manner of man is this? To rush and to crush the day The sea of cars driving The deafening sound of life. And yet, as the sky grows dark, Speeds slow but only a pace or two Night workers slip into the Waning light. The streets nearly bare, Swish with a car Near and far. Streetlights, Like ancient torches Burn the dark. And as the night grows into day That shiver of early morning cold falls Over all. And in the distance the tide begins again.