Downtown Serenity Hour

Today’s investigation, a brand new
skyway smells like

a new car with music seeping through
its air vents. It takes me

through a different artery in the maze. Roots grow
to the first floor becomes a pink lit

W Hotel lobby. A vintage Foshay Tower
elevator car secures

me to the 27th floor. Spectacular view—yes. Cocktails—
yes. Eleven dollar nuts

and nothing else for the likes of me. I could ask
for an espresso but

this is enough discovery for one civil
twilight. Outside’s halo holds

only a spit of pink
inside heliotrope.

Power Out Wednesday

A transformer explodes, a squirrel
dies, civil twilight crashes

into darkness faster than my fingers
can touch the right digits

for relief. To open this book
of scents written by a left

hand to a stranger is exposure
I might not survive. To hide

the ink stains of impressionistic
thought is to remain in a corner

that might not be found
by a flashlight search and repair.

Civil Delusion

Humor me—let’s pretend
you’re not dead. I’m young
enough to think I can still

drink. To believe you
think about me 30 minutes
before dawn, 30 minutes

after dusk. Not all promises
will be broken. You’ll make me laugh
more than cry. And I’ll see

that ridiculous smile,
those chuckling eyes,
when I can’t stop

writing these poems
about a dead man.