A coronet sounds fresh into air
like rain from a troubled sky,
slipping sharp past
an open apartment window,
past jealous
earthbound curtains,
chipped paint
and neglected flowers,
over a fire escape
where the fluid of sound
tumbles down metal stairs
past girls smoking cigarettes
and snapping gum
crossing corners
where garbage cans
stink of last week
as it makes a turn past
a metal pole
into an alley
dotted with moldy puddles,
broken bottles
and paper scraps
where the sound settles
on the ears of a sleeping
drunk who smiles.
Roger Singer 