I love the streets of this town
on a sunny weekday at 10 am,
still air and startled expressions
of other people on the street,
all the energy bundled up
indoors in the air conditioning.
Or on a Sunday night, windows
shaded and dozing, rain drops
in for an hour, and the roosters
are in the yard again next morning.
That rusted-out Ford still for sale
around the corner waits
for its cinderblocks patient as
my tabby as I smoke before dinner.
Every day more small dogs
in the street, another person asleep
under the hardware store’s awning.
When it’s quiet every glance
fills a perfect frame, silver
gelatin prints of light flashes
off of rusting roofs, a distant
tree’s silhouette offset by the white
bandage on a dazed woman’s leg.
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