Licensed CC0/Public Domain.
After I finish
scribing him through my keyboard
the gas man plods on.
☯
Sun in the right spot
to light up King Street Station
sloped roof, shiny green.
☯
In the middle lane,
in the middle of the lane,
one lone prone ladder.
☯
Blind man folds dried laundry
his long cane propped on a slant
against the doorway.
☯
For a split second
I thought she was calling
to say she loves me.
☯
Feeling Lester’s ghost
quite strongly this dead-of-night
hearing Bud Powell
☯
Everything happens
in the time it takes that cloud
to pass my window.
☯
Fly at the window
how steadfast its refusal
to go on its way!
☯
Slumped, and slapping
his own head, in rhythm,
he takes a cell call.
☯
And today I find
inching southward on the train
so nearly sublime
☯
Chandelier blazing
through purple-tinted window,
overcast Tuesday.
☯
I grin a fool’s grin
for each shooting-star–humor
in the grey season.
☯
My heart jumps tempo–
“Would you like to repeat that?”–
but no, they don’t fight.
☯
Tasting hot rain
satisifed by two fat drops
on my tongue’s middle
☯
Unnumbered taillights
curved in the bus’ windshield
frozen red raindrops.
☯
Windstorm splits branches
he rolls over on his side
wedged in his alcove.
