Summer’s Day in the City
The cement guys are patching cracks in the sidewalk.
Taxis roam the streets like vultures
on the lookout for carrion with enough money for the fare.
And this kid – he can’t be more than fifteen -
is toting a boombox worth of rap on his shoulder.
He must figure the city needs more percussion.
Two cars outside the bar have smashed windshields.
A cop strolls by, doesn’t even notice the damage.
The boxing gym is boarded up.
The only hotel for blocks is closed for reservations.
It has been for years.
The neon signs are on strike mostly.
They’ve no glow. No promise.
Just an outline. Just bones.
I take one step – just one -
and I break up a logjam of pigeons.
That’s how it is with city birds and people.
We live close but we don’t trust each other.
It’s hot, real hot.
The sun has a grudge or something.
I try to imagine a cool place
somewhere with a breeze, a drink, a chair.
But every fantasy shrugs me off.
There’s only my place and the window
to the fire escape.
The crooked little balcony
is just perfect for cursing the heat.
And wait for the night to cool the city,
which it does, just enough
so we I can lie to myself again
about tomorrow.
