Behind burning glass

In the freeway dust, keys rattle
a small man stalks in a grey coat
coaxing postures from the pigeons.

He has stopped in all his years for neither god nor time—
but once, he stopped for me.

We wait between concrete towers
a scorch of tires and metal.
The hollow-eyed, the restless
we talk the length of ladies’ nails
of lizards lounging on our walls,
and the weight of standing up straight.

Only a moment between moments
a pause between drive-through bells.

Beside the overpass, this roar deafens us,
sewn shut, we smile to bursting
under these burning lights
subway tile and glass.

Behind burning glass
in this burning waste
we wait.