Loose newspapers hook into the crease
between the buildings and the pavement,
where someone lost a shoe, broke a bottle,
left a sharp trail of urine to a closed door.
Across the street, a man sits on the curb,
head between his legs. No living statue
painted silver here, no boozy tourists spilling
into sidewalks. We don’t venture any further.
In the next block, someone might open a window
to air out a bedroom, call and shake her children
gently awake, hurry off to wait tables. All we know
is whatever we see might unnerve us, by being
too different or too much like home. A police car stops,
and it’s something to do with the man on the curb.
We try not to stare. Later we’ll tell anyone who’ll listen,
we needed to stay, take cell-phone videos, bear witness
just in case an officer pinned the man to the pavement,
knelt on his trussed arms. No one was bothered.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 3.
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