WASHED OVER

An overhead subway creeps

between brownstones.  Sharp shadows

like falling venetian blinds cut across

the moving cars.  From the street below

steam pipes belch gray mists.  Visions

of the city become abstracts of other visions;

seldom is there a clear choice.

 

Late night diners with doors open and tables

full of lively hand conversations, holds the

pillows of sleep.

 

At 2am, gravity pulls in all directions.  A few

stragglers follow street lights.  Someone

remarks there’s a barrel full of memories

Under the 3rd street bridge.


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