by Sean Murphy.
Sights unseeable, or striving to be unseen, Sunday being the day of rest.
Humans hidden or missing in inaction, dispersed
like a bombed-out anthill, sucking on poison fumes
and marinating in distress—followed by unconcern.
A steady scent of sun-baked urine spiced up, at times,
by freshly sparked spliffs, gang-greened grass drowning
in motor oil tears, pulling upward and trying to survive.
Old brick buildings: ancient, stoic, ignored—they’ve lost
their voices, or weren’t taught to sing when they were red
as the firetrucks that blast past, sirens of song, responding.
Retired grills rusting in unused spaces that once swam
with purposeful noise, now like warred-out warships
embarrassed before the open waves in shut-down ports.
Insects impatient, waiting for exhausted vermin to die
by suicide or prayer, just like the people who dread them.
Motorcycle serenades either an intermission or epiphany,
cruising past stale beers purgatoried in their canned coffins.
Repainted road signs refusing guidance, guarding bikes missing
tires & abandoned like toothless dogs coughing in quiet kennels.
Yet always, the miracle of tree after tree, bursting through
broken concrete to mock and defy everything modern.
And at times, a relief or reminder: the street sentinels alert
on porches, fox-holing for the fire watch that never stops.