A cast iron sky stretched over uneven buildings
and streets where hats tip low and mannequins
resemble the living.
Quiet thoughts trouble the air. Words
twist over the procession of long coats and
cigarette smoke; the hard walk of shoes demand
a path.
Shadows in corners whisper. Curtains hold onto
voices, sharing secrets with water stains and idle nothings.
The winds improve with strength. Hats and sand
lift into currents, pushing hair to the side
as collars lift and hands find pockets; cold air cleanses
the street.
Roger Singer 