Bricks and mortar layer-cake. Dearly behoven,
loom workers and machinists, here gather to witness
this severance, divorce, of mill and money.
The empty machine hall, flown nest, distressed
and rendered, jollied out with Victoriana.

Say hello to granny, her poor-house museum existence,
while money sprees his freedom. Fresh blooded,
begets wealth on the city – the waifs, the bullyboys
who barge through homes, communities.
They partition the streets into no-gos
until there is only one road in, and it‘s theirs.

The come-on of laptop glitz, tablets high on gizmos –
the fondant, and the faux-royal icing, the ganache.
The city sweats and river stinks, coin-chunky,
swears – Just One More Drink. Perspective teeters
in smoked-glass, whose interest is offshore;
and maybe thinking of us, wiping memories, accounts,
as if just the dust of passing showers.

A body, face down in the river. And no claimants.