On The Avenue

In the brick park at Hanlon Square,
the rusted, old Spanish bum sits on
brown oak bench in the bomb of golden dawn,

pouring imaginary vapor
from frayed denim pocket
full of plastic vodka.

And all the while,
without spilling,
whistles for a cigarette,
like the wingless dove,
stomping on crimson
blocks of concrete land.


The alchemist arrives
in green streetcar
and spins the gray
silk mountain into
dusty grain of stone.

He waves with the
wingless dove and
white noon in the
cool June blue air.

And there,
in the busy swing of afternoon,
the rotary telescope moves to the icy coast

past the orange
shimmer of mesquite bridge blowing,
through giant rays of raw sun brushing
steel figures with gentle stroke of light,

and on to where
the black bear crows,

and us sailing the velvet
wind West on riverboat.