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Once in a city in a summer (in june)
there was a girl walking on a street.
around her:
A bit of
incandescent
light that slipped through the hole in the street lamp,
its flickering: a little beam of brightness on the iris of her eyes.
A bit of it
spilled onto the dirt and wet that ground into the soles of her shoes and got
grittier with each step.
A bit of it
that was crooked. a crooked beam of light, that wavered
in time to the hummmm
of june bugs and people on porches
in suburbs a few miles east
and the artist
who was coloring
under the stars
nameless, on a bench
on the sidewalk
her searing truths violated, compromised into
little portraits
that hardly qualified for Abstract Expressionism
and aimed to be accurate depictions
and the broom
that swept
away dust
in the downtown cafe
the couple that wouldn’t leave
the voice of Sinatra that
relented and faltered
on the record that grew more warped
with each spin on the record player
the coffee that tasted better than it should for what it was made of
but not enough for what it cost
the moon
not quite spectacular,but there
round and pale like her skin
evidence: the reflections in street bank puddles
that there was a girl. in a city. in a summer. in june.