Nothing was available downtown.
We just ate our city bread, played another
game of pin the sin on the sinner.
My dog could barely keep her belly off
the sidewalk, and nobody blamed
numerous cuts of faulty pork snapped
from one counter or another.
Was I being tailgated by my successor,
or was I the successor? Hopeful
street sweepers shoved newspapers into
the alleys, as if some hand
had momentarily released them, not
slept on them, wiped with
them. Once this corridor was determined
a resurrection zone, but that
will never explain the trail of sweaters
or the fence spiked with
empty lipstick tubes: a golden beacon
until you get up close
and realize it’s another shaming device.
Only some people high
on the corner weren’t walking anywhere.
Half the pigeons participated
in a rumble over spilled coffee grounds
while the slackers eluded
all awareness of nylon boots, or traffic,
or the crotchety gasoline
of a sun far too loose with its flares.
Photo by Diego Torres Silvestre