In the shiniest of shining cities,
The people still track mud in from outside.
There’s dust on shelves and crumbs on countertops,
And trash sailing the wind from street to street
Just like the cars in traffic overhead.
The rain still cancels outdoor gatherings
And snow still must be shoveled in the winter,
But all the people are kept warm inside.
The buildings can withstand the strongest storms,
Unlike the branches and the leaves of trees
That litter sidewalks and must be picked up.
The libraries are filled and filled with books —
Though some have missing pages and cracked spines —
But what is more, are filled with visitors
Librarians still shush for making noise.
Things do break down and have to be repaired,
But there is now enough to go around.
There’s rust on all the statues in the square
Where artists come to show their works, though some
Still criticize the public’s lack of taste,
And public murals fading in the sun
Under which people work, and sweat, and smell.
There is enough for all of them to eat,
But some still burn their tongues on food too hot.
And no one eats alone, because the houses
Are big enough for the biggest families,
Though fights still break out at the dinner table.
And when someone is injured, breaks a bone,
Or bleeds enough to stain their nice, clean clothes,
A doctor sees the wound in no time flat,
Though it might ache for a little while longer.
Getting sick still brings life to a halt,
But most of the time, it isn’t permanent.
But when the patients die — as people must —
Others will weep for them at funerals
Together, and hold each other close for comfort.
Sometimes, when on high in sparkling towers
To overlook a true utopia,
A bird flies into a window and cracks the glass.