When does a city grow whiskers, wrinkles, and crinkles when it smiles?
To be old just passed us a century ago
When carriages bumped on cobblestone roads
Though gather a million people, whose lives coalesce
Into the industrial boom of youth
Or middle-aged toil
And they'll work as hard as they play
In the rain
To keep the city lights on, and the city structures young.
My wrinkles might not come
In the form of the miles my parents walked to overcome
Their hardships
But weekly swims in the public pool
Or dry hands from dish detergent
Or when academic French is a distant memory
(Or perhaps one of my stronger ones, ironically)
May be signs that the city will rest someday
Despite the flooded water grates
Diverting rain away
From the weeds and flowers that grow each spring
Unlike the city that'll crumble into fixtures, wrinkles and
Scattered ghosts of a million names.
In French I tried to say "when I grow older" with "Quand je grandis" but that phrase is supposedly for little kids. "Quand je serai plus âgée" (être --> serai in future tense for 'I') is the correct phrase.
Thoughts on the poem? I didn't quite get to say what I wanted but the semblance is there I think.