A cotton haired black man limps
down the alley singing
a Cuban love song
so beautiful it belies
his disheveled appearance.
The pigeons at dusk,
chant the same mantra
as the night before and all
of the nights to come-
oh no, oh no, oh no.
Shiny new cars whoosh
down damp side streets
with no sense of remorse
for dying days events;
still they flee.
Misfits, and the wretched
and the tragically hopeful
spring from cracks in the sidewalks
and from the shadows
among sparse city weeds.
It is the magic hour.
Out of town soft touches
and Tough Willie booze,
and the big lick good fix
is just out of reach.
It is the time of day that writes itself.
Karma's clock- between tick and tock
between malice and melancholy
when Angels and Demons
call truce. Sublime.
For the cement spawned weeds
it's the only thing that is real.
And darkness cools-
and for the weeds of sidewalks
it is the only thing that is real.
