Next to black smears on tire beaten curbs,
and cracked gutters filled with dead weeds
where muffled thumps of heavy metal song
beat to the thrum of idling cars,
where a circle of pigeons pecks away
at a dark feathered mess mashed on the curb
like a shift of miners picking ore
in a sea of black windows, spewing bad air,
several cars back and a thousand feet down,
in a cross shaft of someone’s claim,
we’re waiting for the red to turn green.
And in this mine of exhausted hearts,
of veins empty of all but fumes,
with the numbing blur of passing cars,
of shopping carts piled with junk filled bags,
and ragged men crossing nowhere streets,
we rake for loose rock on the back overhead,
against the mountain’s granite stare—
our god of greed that never smiles—
and catch a glow from the traffic device,
the shinning aura of a caution light,
a small yellow bird in a little yellow cage
signaling a change in direction.