Yesterday’s puddle reflects

a crescent day moon.

Leather jacketed teenagers hold

court on Bowery Corner.

“Which way is …?”

asks the stranger.

Three people point in

different directions;

the lost hold the discovery

of where they need to be.

Overhead subways kill the

corners with sparks.

Car horns take apart

the air.

Sun reflected windshields

send yellow arrows past


Diamond fingers and

empty pockets pass

one another.

Twins argue which is

more beautiful.

No parking zones are

never alone.

Work-a-day people

buzz by.


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