A crowded but camouflaged
city street, so full
it's gone
crooked
with rival
words and melodies
is more
than music
to my ears; it's worse—
it's like someone dropped me off
in a store that sells
only used similes and metaphors,
and I'm sort of a buff,
so I can't help but
start picking them all up
one-by-one, giving them
each a good thump
and turning them upside
down, exhaling my breath
on them, rubbing off
the condensation, then
gazing back with passion
at my neatly
distorted reflection,
and thinking—I know
none of these is perfect
or brand-new,
but they're sure
dirt-cheap―
and they're here
and I'm
here too. . .
and I can't keep from wondering
which vanishing reaches
of otherwise
indescribable light, or
which severe-angled corner
in the close-quartered
jail of human strife
any (any!) any
of these things
might make a decent,
easy to sell
and ready to use
symbol for.
