God of Bosworth

From a veiled 

stoop with skinny cigarette
drooping—the crazy old man

bids good morning

and ignites a silver lighter, kick-
starting the idle neighborhood.

At once there are
the sounds
of motors turning, birds alighted on
poplars singing glory to the power-

washers lambasting the brown-
stone—and all around, the scrappy
choir resounds

his scrawny hymn for him:

let there be
doubleparking!—and sympathy 

for steep embankments!

wireless home phones to the busy-
bodies framed by dark picture
windows!—spillproof 

lids to the late-to-work stout-
hearted; and strolling

beignets 
to the pastel silk-shirted!