Dust never settles on the burning streets and steel benches,
and I don't need to wander the desert to know solitude.
In this crowd stilled by the boulevard, surrounded with eyes
dulled by invisible music, I am alone. Maybe Satan is
somewhere in this crowd, but He has nothing to say to me
as orange numbers count down to apocalypse
or a safe crossing between solid lines through traffic.
Maybe one of the numbers is lucky. Furiously, the sun
dumps light on the pavement, and we cross the street
among the idling engines, walking on our shadows
to the other side. We expect to arrive at a destination
somewhere on the cracked slabs of concrete littered
with wrappers and little else, cans and can'ts, pennies
we will not bend to find and keys we just ignore.
Many pockets in this crowd are empty, but there is no
visible sign among the marquees. The buildings are large
and blinking and blank with broad entrances dim and loud
interiors leaking chill. All is open and windowless.
Nothing reflects each one of us passing as light careens
on the street no one sees. The desert yawns around the city
and us, dry, deep, without direction, patiently awaiting
the night and the stars lying about the empty sky.
