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,
car-on-car-on-car
sewn shut, we smile to bursting
under these burning lights
subway tile and glass.

Behind burning glass
in this burning waste
we wait.