Abandoned newspapers jump into
flight, cartwheeling over the parking lot,
flattened on a fence. Its abstract art
of yesterday’s news; the death of a
soldier, a circled apartment on East 86th
and fifth.
A trumpet player joins the wind,
flattening out the notes, falling into
rhythm, welcoming the noise.
It’s a night avoiding daylight. Stars appear
to be home, except for hallway moths
jumping to the brightest of lights.
Strangers moving through. Truckers
all named Joe. Plenty of coffee creates
shifty eyes. No one’s counting sheep.
Roger Singer 