Think of this as a string of tiny snapshots from one person's wandering days in a city. Each stanza catches something passing: a small plane, a worn van, a street trumpet, a truck's air brakes, a softball field, a Portuguese singer on the speakers. The speaker notices sky colors, sunlight on bare toes, and an ant living in an empty ice-cream pint, and the tone is wry rather than solemn.
Underneath the observation, there's a mix of feelings. Concrete and rebar are set against "the dead stars," and we prance "atop dinosaurs," so the speaker keeps sensing how much time lies beneath and above ordinary life. A demolished building, once full of students, now holds only machines, which brings a quiet sadness. Other moments are bitter or funny, like the line about the man who "stole my lover." The ending turns lighter: cherry blossoms, a joke about being bored of them, and a sudden interruption. The overall mood is relaxed, a little lonely, and alert to small wonders.