There’s a skeleton Jack boy clouding outside
Blows face-on right at the muzzle of the still-ignited ambulance
like a challenger.
There’s a standing suitcase observing two unemployed traffic cones from afar;
His hand dances about holding the handle
as if plastic could burn
There’s a rock-dull security line on the window: projected
people lugging needs and desires
to a counter where a woman weighs them with too much
There’s a bent figure crouched beside the glass slope
of the window, typing words I guess
on a laptop computer – the heavy kind, not the Air.
Neck craning, fingers atrophying from the lack of gravity
between one fiery thought and the next.
Between the color-coded flames and their jars
and the reflections and the desires
one can no longer see any stars
above this city.