David Francis


Our Street


Down the drowsy drizzly street

by the winter scarecrow tree

a line of parked cars,

the lousy models


there is a lot

of brown brambles

and lint-white trash

where the tinker lives


before

the sidewalk slopes

crookeding the foundations

of the narrow houses


in the little room

between the doors

I hide

then


up the street

I wander

where the blare, scrape

and scare of morning


mouthes:

the silent individuals

tread by

toward the subway


down, again,

the others, mostly women

eating ham and chatting

march toward the sweatshop


at the end of the street

wan black birds

and gulls from the canal

fly over the brick monstrosity.



David Francis © 2008