Bridge Street


Halfway under lights, he smiles,
leans into the wheelchair.
Stain-polished and limp-rag’d,
surely the world breaks
brightly in ricochets.
Look, I’ve no camera today,
I didn’t have the heart
but a woman’s there too,
reaching up to, aloft on his arm,
a pigeon’s rainbow breast.

How else shall I believe
what flashed in her eyes,
pendants of air,
alight in trash?

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