To Mature

I got used to the bustle

Of steel, asphalt, and hustle.

That burns Sunday between its laughs,

And between Mondays repeats its cycle

Have I come to mature?

Waking below the morning sun's embrace,

Waiting along the bitter song

Of coffee, and its darkened step

Dancing between silver and sigh

Bearing the workaholics,

Grim look.

Who traded childhood for gold,

Wilting atop his valued treasures.

What a foolish little boy.