City Sketch

hard-hatted mexican workers
return to work in the cool
shadows cast by squat buildings
walking in line, dressed in
fluorescent orange yellow green
vests, soiled white pants,
they pass on other side of newspaper
stand bypassing groups of
office smoke breakers, talking inhaling
exhaling talking, the air smells like
spring slight tinge of burnt rubber
idling car engines, one of those days
with winter shadows and spring
sun warmth, men with sleeves
rolled up, women in skirts, not sure
if it's still jacket weather or not,
lunch crowds swarming
outdoor patio seats full and waiters
skipping between tables, taking
orders bringing food, cleaning up,
everything above blue and crisp
and new, birds returning chirping
harbinger of march april may
I hear them counting down
pulling me away and toward--what's to
come--something like a great adventure
and maybe get my pen moving again--
like legs and wheels and--lunch truck smells
lines haphazard waiting--did you order, yet?
no. yes yes okay? no, go ahead--feet on
pavement, honking horns washington dc in
the afternoon same as afternoons everywhere
stuffed into a box and shaken up and turned
upsidedown--I catch a glimpse of it
choking--a great wall of text written underneath
a promise somehwere a sigil planted deep
deep beneath the void--calls me to step over
the pot holes--listen as it explands--hissing
from the future--winter ends spring ends
summer all over again--someplace new someplace
grand part the great sea america--shuttle to the coast
3,200 miles away I know where I'm going
I know how I'll get there.