O spring streets comes the artist
a pail of water and a large brush
to draw his frustrated characters
they dry the moment you read them
dusk but hard to tell dark particulates
closing hard with the invisible ink
this is not the life you ordered
these are not the epicurean streets
what has gone before is turned to rice
polaroid photos working in reverse
you reach a pale door without a poem
in a city that is not long-shouldered
that pushes points between our bodies
shoves and turns shoulders to make way.
© 2013 Rob Schackne
© 2013 Rob Schackne
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