The End of the Week

The obscured sun shone through
in filthy white strands
reflecting off of tinted skyline windows
washed a million times by scruffy men on trapeze.
The pigeons stared down
with pointless black eyes
on the people
as they defecated
on hard trampled sidewalk.
10,000 eyes searched the exhaust billowing streets
for something like an angel
but all that could be seen
were the finches bathing in metallic pools.
Yet the artists,
the evangelicals
and the drunkards
waited for a second coming,
for an eastern star 
as men in black and khaki overcoats
hurried and taxied
into an eternity of rotating doors
spinning like roulette balls
lost deep within the game.
The sun died
and was resurrected
but all that came
was the Saturday morning newspaper
thrown clumsily.