Monday, October 17, 2011


At the day’s dawn a fox hunts through
beer boxes, old electronics, trash bags
for survival scraps.

Two men wander the same path as
the fox. They rummage the same items,
scrapping metal for profit.

Fire burns on the top of the mountains
most mornings. Red, orange, purple,
yellow crayons melt on radiators of rock.

Berkeley Park runs quiet.
A rusty Pontiac waits in a
parking lot next to a karaoke bar.

No phones are ringing.
No false car alarms.
The fire station has hit
snooze on the siren.

Dogs lead themselves down Tennyson,
stride over children’s chalk graffiti.

Alphabetized authors were given the streets.
Yet literature rushes down the sidewalk.
Numerous sheets of paper, all different
colors, never knowing the story’s end.

The art galleries closed hours earlier.
Plastic cups that once held wine now
lay, with a hangover, in gravel.

A coffee shop unlocks its door.


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