(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.

http://www.nytimes.com/2015/03/29/style/bill-cunningham-spring-unfurls.html?ref=fashion&_r=0

© Richie Smith