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.
Roger Singer 