Grey gray

Grey gray sidewalks,
coated in wads of (chewed) HubbaBubba
and stumped-out cigarettes
pave the way for balding men in pleated soot suits
to their towering skyscrapers.
Work, eat, work, eat, work, work, sleep.

The sky has been crying again,
eyeshadow and mascara smudged against her blue cheeks.
Her rosy lips press against one another until they turn a ghostly white,
only to be coloured by her watery make-up.
Great sheets of her tears splash on several of these bald(ing) men, who look up at her in annoyance, pulling out their city's famous charcoal umbrellas.

A family of four,
thrown out by their landlady (mean ol' Mrs Teddington)
stand out in the rain, collars pulled up and heads bent low.
Where do they go now?
Daddy has been sacked from the shoe factory.
Mummy is sick.
Little Betty is wailing, she needs her milk.
Brad is so young, yet his hands are callused with labouring work.
A car drives by and skids over a puddle, drenching the already-wet family.

Missy has just dyed her hair purple.
She knows her mother will freak.
That's why she did it.
She fingers her nose ring and winces as she accidentally pokes her phoenix tattoo.
Examining herself in the mirror, she sees a teen, overlooked and ignored for too long, crying out for the love and attention she needed so much in these difficult years.
So she smokes, dyes her hair, pierces and inks every inch of her body, peddles drugs, gets thrown into Juvenile Court...
The sky is grey gray. She takes a deep breath of the polluted air, spins on the heel of her leather boots and shuffles home.

Utopia, they call it.
It's just another word for dystopia, really.