Stranger In The City

This city will never
have your heart.
But she will know
your cold fingers
gripping window bars
that old song
in your head
late night foibles
piling cigarette butts.
No, I don't smoke.
Neither does She.
I keep sweeping,
sweeping and dusting
piling cigarette butts
that you leave
here, there, everywhere!
My city will never
have your heart.
Just the diary
you threw out
of your rented
flat, will age
upon her. Yellowing
crumbling, falling
all over her.
No, you do not
have to give her
your heart.