(yeah, it's a poem. so what?)
The Chinese lady races the garbage truck
Her cart piled impossibly high
With cans from overnight hustle.
The sun burns the air
Inside the cars parked for the day.
Proof that the owners work in town
Or have called in sick
Or aren't working at all.
The squeak of busses and cabs
as they jockey among the cars and the bikes
and the young ladies walking with too many bags
while the two-strapping intern moves
like he doesn't even know it's hot
A butterfly finds beauty among the weeds.
Or was it a moth?
English sparrows and starlings fill the gaps
in the man-made noise.
They displaced the natives, too.
All these little moments.
I try not to sweat.
The humidity irons my pants.
The meeting starts soon.
An evening drink on the deck is not so far away.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Berlin
Monika walked through the wall. All these years, then just like that. No more climbing, no more digging. No more dying. Neither the first ...
-
If you hang out with Ray and me long enough, one of us will tell the story. My version is a mildy amusing short tale of semi-masochistic ani...
-
In the most tactical terms, I ski because as a kid, my parents made me. It was like school: I went because I had no choice. That was a lon...
-
Her lobster claw hands weren't sexy, and no woman alive would envy her sad little tuft of hair, but that was hardly the point. She had t...
No comments:
Post a Comment