2 Go

An artificial river
out of site,
rubber retread bound,
taunts the wind
as bubbles in my skin
a sapient bronze

My back leans
on concrete smooth,
cool, and fresh,
(a year yet to cure)
as eyes sample
towers of the past,
like walking sticks in sand
that grow
roots with age.

A northern breeze
around corners,
flats, and nooks.
Waves roll about the ears
as chills, sweat, and
cast a placid lull.

A purveyor
of lost mechanical
pauses, ponders:
a boater shades his brow
and beard,
while 24-eyelet wooden heels
swallow the tribal tartan–
are a silhouette of recall.

I step,
look over my shoulder,
(hunger bares absent fruit)
and on the corner,
a Sabrett wagon retrofit
patches plywood over rust.
a smile and eyes
of market glee
hail the primal yen.

“I’ll have
the shwarma,
2 GO.”

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