THURSDAY

THURSDAY

 

 

Desperate hands open street awnings.

The shade is welcome to pedestrians.

The aroma of flowers and fruit

swell through the street. Eyes of

suspicion avoid contact but are

curious nonetheless. Men with

unbuttoned shirts and gold chains

snap gum to the beat of their polished

shoes. A gust of air lifts the sports

section of a newspaper as it settles

noisily under a bus. Window shadows

march to their reflection; faces blurred with

motion. A crusader preaches on the corner.

Pigeons circle above, landing on a

rooftop. Gargoyles hiss from elevated

perches, watching and wishing on the feast

below.   Cement statues stand guard in

parks. Their intentions, like many, are

frozen in stone.

 

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