-Ryan Conway
In the dirty bath of March
the sky chooses not to display its better parts.
There's no cleansing
the mud from pantlegs, nowhere
to store the wreckage of abandoned playthings.
Late night walkers breathe
decay's soothing warmth, and decide
that love is like that blinking red traffic light,
an on and off irritation.
The darkness requests a subject:
a siren, a cry, a pyrotechnic.
The houses and trees say We'll see what we can do
while moving on to other matters.
No one percieves the potential energy here, though
it begs for misdemeanor like a home
emptied of parents. The walkers do not pause
to French kiss the pavement,
do not caress the underbelly of bridges.
That red light keeps going
and the pulse of the road
remains steady and bovine.
