down along 42nd and cypress street
the allegorical prostitutes say their not street
hookers but just a symbol of sex.
just like the walking sign post
stop, merge left, bump,
narrow road ahead.
cracked pavement and raindrops,
concaved inward and downward
awake the cornerstreet prophet and
pattern out a little mercy for the junkies
spinning double helix faith.
such a beautiful gray angelican.
the cigarette littered sidewalk somehow
seems to resurrect its stone geist
with dreams of a sandlewood
gossamer in its head.
but he must know just like all
the others to the east, hawthorn st
and alder st, birch st and ash st.
he must remember that things dont
change for the good much at this
time of year.
the gentrified saints have all
moved north, to sit in hipster
bistros and drink organic
sumatra fair trade coffee.
down along 42nd and cypress st
little was said and less understood.
mostly train horns and mumbling,
mostly sleeping nocturnal birds
with a few leaf clogged storm drains.
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