This city doesn't seem to change.

It's still dim coats and black shoes.

They call it silver but it's grey,

its streets, littered with artists and proud men,

and since it's hard to tell the two apart

it makes sense that one would leave


But you'd be pleased to know,

a man in dark brown pointed shoes,

a hat and turquoise scarf

is staring at your dead sunflowers

and saying, "They're full of life."

He's moving along with a group

of inquisitive young tourists

who've travelled quite a distance

to marvel at an obscure oxymoron--

A city, still as death famed for beauty, art and light.