Red Sax

Jackhammers dice the air.

Core arteries bound by the uniform,
the cubicle-released spin through

revolving doors and out into rush hour.
Clouds accordion the approach of dusk.

The horizon’s red sax flaring notes
like orchids spun down canyons.

A white-haired gent climbs the steps,
eyes carving a passage through thunder.

Our city reciting magnetic lines, upwind
from the currents choked with flung bets.

Friday sidewalks filling with downtown shimmer.

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Last updated June 15, 2011