Streets of America
I.
We finger with delicacy
the streets of America
after the motorists have driven through
on their way to somewhere else,
something else.
We allow them their dreams,
content with small, allocated parts
in their furtherance:
someone passed on a street corner
who remains to number
the dry sticks of few choices.
The trashpicker never takes a day off;
out in the blizzard
or cutting through sleet like a ghost.
Now the sun lays its feverish blanket
over stillborn dreams and songs
and it's all the same clacking metronome
of empty mailboxes and just a few eggs.
We are the jugglers of days
and small hopes
and we finger with delicacy
the streets of America.
Into our eyes is beaten and forged
a certain patience. This only
you may see and mark strangely:
the gaze from front steps
or from behind blind windows
pierces the transparency
of yesterday and tomorrow.
You cannot read our eyes.
II.
Now in the cool evening
the machine has shifted
to its night frequency.
Motorists have passed through
arterial streets
and left them cooly humming.
They're esconced in slots
of consensual making:
alarm clocks set
for a riot of repitition.
Those who remain at the fringe
in the center
casually drink the colors
of evening
and are come into their own
for what it is worth.
The whore or maiden of night
settles with a sigh
on a creaking divan,
hardly daring to lust after dreams:
a nocturne dimly sounded
like a slender abeyance.
III.
The twilight takes hours to pass
so subtle the flow of its change.
The city's hum grown softer now,
few cars pass on Grant street.
Only the sparse heel
of an occasional walker
can be heard.
The cries of children sound far off,
diminish.
The statue of the Virgin
in the convent niche
raises palms through wrought iron.
Her hands are white
with the blood of the moon.
I.
We finger with delicacy
the streets of America
after the motorists have driven through
on their way to somewhere else,
something else.
We allow them their dreams,
content with small, allocated parts
in their furtherance:
someone passed on a street corner
who remains to number
the dry sticks of few choices.
The trashpicker never takes a day off;
out in the blizzard
or cutting through sleet like a ghost.
Now the sun lays its feverish blanket
over stillborn dreams and songs
and it's all the same clacking metronome
of empty mailboxes and just a few eggs.
We are the jugglers of days
and small hopes
and we finger with delicacy
the streets of America.
Into our eyes is beaten and forged
a certain patience. This only
you may see and mark strangely:
the gaze from front steps
or from behind blind windows
pierces the transparency
of yesterday and tomorrow.
You cannot read our eyes.
II.
Now in the cool evening
the machine has shifted
to its night frequency.
Motorists have passed through
arterial streets
and left them cooly humming.
They're esconced in slots
of consensual making:
alarm clocks set
for a riot of repitition.
Those who remain at the fringe
in the center
casually drink the colors
of evening
and are come into their own
for what it is worth.
The whore or maiden of night
settles with a sigh
on a creaking divan,
hardly daring to lust after dreams:
a nocturne dimly sounded
like a slender abeyance.
III.
The twilight takes hours to pass
so subtle the flow of its change.
The city's hum grown softer now,
few cars pass on Grant street.
Only the sparse heel
of an occasional walker
can be heard.
The cries of children sound far off,
diminish.
The statue of the Virgin
in the convent niche
raises palms through wrought iron.
Her hands are white
with the blood of the moon.