All these figures

I see on the street are hard and ugly.

You are an angel, white

floating through,

never touching the puddles

or the gum.

There is no trace of you

in the butts flowing along the curb

in the filth stream of the gutter.

There isn’t any

hint of your voice

in the coarse words of the fat man

arguing with the bald guy

in front of the deli.

I can’t smell you

in the tidal wave of expensive odor

pouring off the overly polished

business woman.

You are not in the steady drizzle.

You aren’t in the horns, the sirens

or the flashing lights,

or the blaring idiocy of some

wanna-be gangsta’s car stereo.

I admire your untouchableness.

The way you stay untainted

and unattainable.

Though I scan the sidewalks

and look in the windows of the stores,

though I try and close to my mind

to all the miserable reality

in front of my eyes,

when I jump up

and reach out

for that higher plain

I fall short.

My outstretched hands and they aren’t strong enough to hold on

So I fall.

Back down into the world

of beepers and taxis and closing doors.

Of arrogance matched only by ignorance.

Of cigarette butts in the gutter.

Landing that much harder,

sinking that much deeper

more aware of my surroundings

for my brief flight

trying to reach

the height from which I fell

You.