After I finish
scribing him through my keyboard
the gas man plods on.

Sun in the right spot
to light up King Street Station
sloped roof, shiny green.

In the middle lane,
in the middle of the lane,
one lone prone ladder.

Blind man folds dried laundry
his long cane propped on a slant
against the doorway.

For a split second
I thought she was calling
to say she loves me.

Feeling Lester’s ghost
quite strongly this dead-of-night
hearing Bud Powell

Everything happens
in the time it takes that cloud
to pass my window.

Fly at the window
how steadfast its refusal
to go on its way!

Slumped, and slapping
his own head, in rhythm,
he takes a cell call.

And today I find
inching southward on the train
so nearly sublime

Chandelier blazing
through purple-tinted window,
overcast Tuesday.

I grin a fool’s grin
for each shooting-star–humor
in the grey season.

My heart jumps tempo–
“Would you like to repeat that?”–
but no, they don’t fight.

Tasting hot rain
satisifed by two fat drops
on my tongue’s middle

Unnumbered taillights
curved in the bus’ windshield
frozen red raindrops.

Windstorm splits branches
he rolls over on his side
wedged in his alcove.