Beheld by the mirthful
eye of the mind,
the autumn breeze
always seems
to be laughing
at these certain small
disheveled lessors
it periodically sees—fevered
and glistening, fit to
sneeze—flurrying back
to work
again sweeping
newly strewn crumbs
of dirt and scratchy
bits of leaves
out from the thusly-
tickled elbows
of concrete curbs
underneath
the smirking
windowfaces
of bloated
obsolescent
brownstones—as if
somehow, those!
were the motes
that caused all the itching.
