Around the block
there are chain linked fences and
brick and mortar smoke stacks.
There is a church
that used to be a brewery
that used to be a church and
knee high grass
where train tracks are sleeping
to the sound of flood canals
quarter filled with run off
from the highlands.
There is a dealership
with paper taped windows
waiting for the painters
who promised to show
years ago and
open socket apartments above
still dark in daylight
for fire damage.
Around the block
there are dog walkers and
a couple of gas station way points
and a Chevrolet Bel Air
standing like a sea foam and cream
drop of water atop a bucket
brimming with as much time
as can be held in a hand
cupped beneath a broken faucet and
with beauty tensile enough
to strike notes against the chords of
afternoon's five barred song
in it's three hundredth interpretation of
a year long overture and
loud enough to be heard above
the ensemble familiar.
The body, the curves and points begging to be
TLC'd.
The chrome defies the suck
and winks broad
across the bar of empty lot and street.
There is so much you know
about me,
it speaks,
and so much more you have to learn
if you could spend the rest of today
with your body held tight,
fingers to my thin wheel,
with my pedals at your feet.
Glimmer shiver and tongue bit,
a heart weeps
to taste the glory of
a Valedictorian from another world,
another time, that will never sleep.
