(a response to Bill Cunningham)
The view is still quite colorless from down here.
Many depressed by a harsh winter hope to find solace
in the color of spring
but for some it comes too late.
You can see geometric patterns in the their dress, but holes are still black
material worn thin like our spirits–from a winter so harsh
it formed slits in the only clothing we have–
longitudinal vents that expose our flesh to the cold and waver
striped like bar codes.
The asphalt crumbles under our feet.
They step over and around us inconvenienced by the potholes
pocking our mattress—that is the pavement.
I’m sorry it disrupts their walks and rides,
those commutes in sacred carriages.
Pieces of chrome glisten
in debris fields here alongside the curb
and in mountains far away;
shards of mirror–reflections of humanity
in a thawing paradise
most of us will visit only in our dreams.