by Arthur Kayzakian
The sidewalk sleeps beneath an empty
bench. Light posts lick the street.
We wait for her, like the shadow
waits for me. Endlessly, stretching
underneath her walk. Some things
are meant to fall like tall husbands
weeping on her leather wings. Broken
down with hungry hands within the walls
of long hallways. Her eyes seasoned
with perception and arms cradling
an eager world thirsty for her embrace.
Bended, we edge slowly to her warmth.
She confides in the vulnerable
like toothpaste wasted on a yellow
molar. Nestled in her electric crevice—
the city crawls inside her when she sleeps.
Last updated June 15, 2011