Leaves and crumpled strawcovers,
bits of plastic trash, and pollen
swirl in small gyres of air along the grey street.
Parked cars, many makes and sizes, colors all a hint of earth—
Seen em all in mountain postcards, or in some meadow
Out in Georgia. Cracks like canyons, or in bark, or on
Old people faces, faulter across the grey street.
Sun not prominent—got that UV-glow—that overcast
That’s hot. Sticky.
Homes. Homes are there. You’ve seen streets of homes.
What else to say? Some are cracked like the street,
None smooth or even. A peculiar character to the windows.
It’s a street with homes that people live in. Some come out to
Wave. But mostly you’ll see someone out on the edge of their driveway
As you drive by, eyes following your license plate as you go, with that
Peculiar character to the eyes.
At one of the gutters—faded “Drains to Bay” hovering over it—someone
Built a blockage with sandbags yellowstalesunstained. Small puddle
Made from the last rain 3 days ago, outlined with leaves and
Reflecting the sky, grey sky, insignificant bumps in clouds—more flat
More a cover than anything….
Man in a white shirt walks in the middle of the road, greased pants,
Sandals? Sandals: yes. Shirt, pants, sandals, unwashed dirtybrown hair,
Sunglasses, smile. Smile? Yes: smile. Toothpick in his mouth
Walking down the middle of the street—
I am sitting on the curb across from the puddle.
He walks by and turns his head towards me.
“Hey,” he says.
I nod back. He walks a few steps
Stopsandturns—“Hey,” he says.
“Yeah?” I say.
“You going anywhere?” he says.
I look down between my knees at the grey street. I look up.
“C’mon” he says, tilting his head toward the streetlights.
“C’mon” he says.
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