i've seen a lot less nothing than at this intersection. picture a desert,
lakebed cracked like the back of yr. hand.
even there there's more for the eye to latch on--a wisp of plant matter blown
by a breeze you can feel,
a silence that lets you hear the blood pumping in your ears. here, at the
corner of 46th and stone,
it's nothing but McDonald's and commuters, one fat gull and jet aircraft
on approach, the
cowardly roar of heartless lions. the clouds are a joke. rolled-up windows,
at least there's one old woman crossing the street, slow and unsteady as
burdened horse fording a too-strong stream. "you doing ok today?" a
asks her as the steel boxes roll, every 5th driver talking on a phone,
wise alone, and suddenly i don't miss my imagined tuft of desert
plant matter, as drivers signal their turns and i wait for my
friends whose porch this is to come home.