She speaks to him with her single
quotation mark eyebrows.
She’s not the first to tell him
it’s time to rescue the creek
from the underground.

Vampire loads haunt the halls
of revamped warehouses and
not so refreshed corner bars.

A GPS watch skips
two hours ahead
without the wearer having
to leave the neighborhood.
It’s a mistake

to diminish the sorrow
in the center
of everything.

After days of sweating
and hallucinating
about buildings
that scrape clouds
off the sky

like sandblasters attacking
stubborn graffiti residue,
the hissing finally ceases.

A tenant left the window open
before moving out.
She wants to ask him
where all the sax players
who used to wail their laments

out open windows
have gone. It’s April 1st,
and nine inches of fresh snow

conceal all the previous day’s
potential. Sadly, it’s no joke.
He reminds her you can see
the tangle of highway lanes below
through tiny knotted holes

in the pedestrian bridge
boardwalk. No nearby woonerf
to calm the traffic down.

Thunder sleet—also no joke.
She confesses to him
she has not crossed
the Mississippi in months.
It could simply mean

all the musicians have stopped
practicing. Or, they have
already broken free.

He doesn’t have to say it.
They both know
this day won’t end
without hearing Prince sing
“Sometimes It Snows in April.”

They watch the freight train
pass through town before them,
car after car holding

someone else’s secrets—not theirs.

The rhythm of wheels
over rail joints
ruins their rush.

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