That quiet lot across the road, where
comfort arms crossed, and
the leapers, criers, the
many children are absent.
The wind gathers the leaves and bits of paper
re-mixes their movement and positing
folding and in-folding.
Galvanized chain link fences, rusted
along the bottom edge do
not so much as inhibit barrier-
crossers, but by deft defiance cause
the crisp light to leap up
into my arms, and running
back, so small, before the bricks and
These palm lines converge too quickly,
they should encompass a greater expanse.
The lot, the empty lot, rolls downwards
towards the intersection, the lights going
through their motions, their sequences for hardly anyone.
And back across up to the teahouse
where a Paine’s grey watercolor sky reflects
from the top of a tepid cup, tightly held.