pastel skies preside
over the migration
through the dusty-dusk streets
a few spare souls
pace the same sidewalks
in a different zone,
seeing the life of everything
auto-gauging at every turn
they tap our hive-buzz
for answers and power
hear and see it all
in mad, bounteous cascade
the Corlear’s Hookers
plying their trade
the scattershot art
the homeless made
the ghostly cat calls
of time zones past
the sonic rat messages
telegraphed
at half mast
the daytime drinkers
in the hoppy-dark bars
and the yearning teenagers
squinting for stars
in the angelic language
of pigeon wings
under cross-examination
of the setting sun
we all tread home
to brighter dreams
and the day is won
