Green leaves of maples tarred silver with mist
and on the clothesline a camisole billowing in a breeze stuffed
with jonquils over there behind the rooming house
where Sheila’s brushing back her dripping hair & talking birth control
and giggling to herself about recycling bins & reincarnation at birth—
a wry smile on her face
as a keyless car lock chirps twice
and the whole city seems to lift then out of a footprint,
all of it timed impeccably
for a break in the clouds—swinging blue sky, open door—

a sensational minute or two
to live through all in all,
abundant with the smells only a century
like this could cook up, the avenue & its wisps of dieseled air aching
with the fragrance of lilacs,
and none of it asking in return
for sustained applause or your signature on a loyalty oath.
An almost prehistoric
pleasure. Contentment in transit. A bravura
with streaming audio. A bonus.
And shareable. Because bad luck comes
whenever time begins
to limit itself to you, & good luck is largely
reciprocal, & mostly roving, & in the Riverside taverns
at neap tide
the leather jobbers & print-shop foremen bent
over Buds & frosted schooners of India Pale Ale & jiggers of Seagrams
they value clarity over irony, a slightly buzzed clarity,
townie gossip over metropolitan chic.

A modesty rules the neuromuscular pathways
at times such as these,

but no one raises a hand to ask permission either.
There are homes inside of this—

and that’s the whole story—there are homes here—

& simplicity isn’t always a defect or disguise,

& we don’t always have to live behind the scenes.