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Above a sidewalk corner store
where twenty-twos of Schlitz malt liquor
pour and anchor paper bags to the street;
above a ten-year old, pacing, sweating,
stiff, slightly pitching on his toes, casting
entrepreneurial eyes at reeling gaits,
selling flowers woven of
sweetgrass, dipped in rose oil,
bundled in his fist
above the seething concrete,
a stench and stain
no good rain could wash away,
a fan spins, like helicopter blades,
somewhere searching,
pulling outside air in
where in repose
a mother waits.
In her lap, bent pages
of a magazine gently crack,
swaying up, down in the small breeze
her legs crossed, her head back
a voice murmuring on t.v.
The six o‘clock light
splinters like glass,
Patterning her dreams
like a dealer‘s dealing:
one-eyed jack
unreal queen
red, black, red, black