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
heaven.
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.
