The window conveys the
enthusiasm of one of the
legs of the sun stepping
across. There is a little oval
halo of irridescence
around this mark of brawls.
In the gray haze just
above the gleam, representing
the featureless expanse
of an adjacent building, pass
the drained corpses of
sundry Sunday vehicles. Early
evening light, wan, a
little warm, quite servicable.
In the crosshatched,
elongated shadows of bicycle parts
crenelations throw a
comet's orbit against a hoodlum's
stubble. His face rests
its eyelts gingerly in a flowered
scarf. His fingers break
a crumbling floe over a river
of shuttered stores. A
garden hose is carried through
the mercury marches
grimacing around the boots. A
knitted, engorged rose
emerges from the skirt at the hip
as she bags for him a
breakfast which he
will nibble while passing
lobes flattened
against the insides of
gated windows.
Paul
Baumann
