Wayne Ma

Cannon Writer

The cold concrete scratches against my shoes

as I stroll swankily down the street.

Walking to the beat of the perfect Sunday song playing.

The crisp fall air bites my cheeks

where the rain ran over.

I pull my hands out of my warm pockets

and feel the cool breeze trickle between my fingers.

The orange sun peeks in between the buildings down the street

and scares the rain away.

Cars rush past in classic downtown fashion,

their honks saying ‘hello’

over the tunes singing in my ears.

The warm wafts over me till I’m warm as hot chocolate,

the concrete is soft under my soles,

and I blend into the pace of the city.

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