Subway, heading home.Issued from the earth and ridinginto sun patches.
Willow branches droop downfrom the grey banks of the tracksover the noisome streams of orange,red, and white graffiti.
Passengers’ eyes scan passing wallslike sight readers searching furiouslyfor unintelligible melody.
Manage the circuitous route,its daily labors at each end.Quiet the rumbling, press play.
Louis’ trumpet climbs to mind abovethe noxious friction of tracks and brakes.Like a familiar code, brass sunlight tapsbetween the gaps in the high towers.
His mumbles stumble forthone after anotherswaying like wet sweaters, dresses, and tuxtails on clothes drying linesmingling with the winds.
Flowers I can’t name stretchover the lip of a windowsillto stare into the swooning sun.
I will not sing,but I am tempted.
I do not laugh,but then I do.