Thirty-five stories
with one for each floor,
from the vanity
of the penthouse,
to the immigrants
at the door

In this thick urban forest
the buildings don't shade,
they keep cursory soldiers
in a status crusade

Mobs are dense
in this synthesized zoo,
glancing while passing,
deeming verdicts on you

The sections and boroughs
flaunt obnoxious their worth,
as if blocks were a culture
in this lottery of birth

The constant construction
decays as it grows,
and if you ask
if it's noticeable,
I assure you,
it shows

There's a hustle
on the grid
where venture plays,
as signs corral numbness
in this overpriced maze

The options are plenty
in the saturations
of sight-
a wash of false quality
that stays open
all night