The dimpled water can’t decide
On inscrutable green
Or metallic gray.
The sky, a quilt of whites, grays,
Patches of scudding charcoal sewn in,
Sheds a few loose threads of snow
That get entangled in the morning’s hair.
Towers, pavilions, boxes at the water’s edge
Proffer their utilitarian beckoning mind,
Cast concrete steeled with logical support
As massive, all pervasive as the raw air.
To the east the briefest spy of sun
Caught in a sparkling act of sabotage
teases for a moment, but then is gone
From the windows in solid-citizen stone.
Too late , I think poetry, not business…..