Hot city. Concrete alleys.
Weeds crawl from cracks near broken glass
and homeless stars.
Black wires above connect buildings
like jungle vines where birds
and small creatures cross the canyon.
Mounds of garbage sit fat with moisture,
ripe with decay.
A back door opens. A fat man
wearing an apron steps out
lighting a cigarette. The smoke lifts,
encircling his head. Thick fingers push
back his hair. The sound of pots and pans
echo from the open door. He gazes to
the end of the alley, looking intently as if
waiting for someone. He puts out the
cigarette and returns inside.
The hum of fans and machines
fills the space.
Roger Singer 