90spoems/worldview

The royal blue neon
of the take-out restaurant
hovers at eye level
through the kitchen window,
as though preparing
to ascend or descend,
I cannot be sure,
but its constant murmuring
promises that aliens
are surely near.

Across the parking lot
the garage band practices
during the dinner hour.
Sunday, Monday, Thursday.
I try to memorize
the exact schedule,
to steel myself
against the intrusion.
Sometimes I think
they’re improving
but when the volume increases
I’m not so certain.

Next door the dry cleaners
hangs blankets out back,
steam billows from the roof.
Do the owners know
their shirts hang on clothes
lines here in this urban alley.
I am curious about their methods
which seem so imprecise,
so homey, countrified, in fact.
But I have not been able
to apprehend the particulars
of the process.

City busses heave themselves
through the intersection,
we hear them
throughout the night.

1991