My city is pompous businessman with jiggling jowls.

It is tired toddlers ' dramatic howls.

It is tumbling, tangling streets.

Recycled air just repeats and repeats.

My city is the panting from endless inclines.

It is the homeless with damp cardboard signs.

It is the quick steps and averted eyes.

We run through our fingers grumbles and sighs.

My city is the rain, storms and sun.

It is a story barely begun.

It is the whisper of the ocean in old sea shells.

That holds secrets but never tells.

My city is the present tripping over the past.

It has a stubborn intention to survive and outlast.

It is mismatched architecture like a patchwork quilt.

A disarray of colour recently spilt.

My city is a child's gleaming spit bubble.

It Watches indifferently as history turns rubble.

It is words sewn in blue medical masks.

My city echoes in that busker's voice as it rasps.

Not part of the poem but can anyone guess where I live from this?