My Urban (pt 1)

I can see hands from here,

Pulling years away from the reach of all these new places,

Savoring tarnished doors,

Held open,

In the wet air of night avenues,

Smoky corners

And back seat make outs.


I can see your mom on Sunday,

Toiled indifference to our follies,

Our moves to a life so big,

Deftly held in a trembling hand.


“Can I see you again?”

Like the buses at the intersection,

Moving to scheduled vistas

Taken like snapshots

From another overpass

With trains underneath

And billowing April clouds

Against the blue velvet of a painting

Hanging on the wall of a house

On some street at the edge of town.

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