One Sore Moment under a Sodium Vapor Lamp

Right now, the last bar on the untold side of the equator

is closing,

out of the hunt.

The height of the shadows and

everything else

seems fine.

Just fine.

 

It doesn’t matter if there’s really a garden

behind those locked gates.

It’s never mentioned.

Then, there is a trash can, the most undisturbed

trash can,

lighter than yellow,

this crazy yellow that prevents the city from becoming whole.

 

So, your ride ends here.

Your mere wheels are attached

to the dream car you eventually bought

on that month after the genteel months

of seriousness and no talking.

Difficult yet amazing that you still consider it

a secret; You’ve become it, the secret

of a summer house that looms from under the high concentration

of bewildered milieu and masses of irrelevant cubes and blocks

like a waning whale that quivers

under the asphalt’s morose glow.

 

That’s how you always make it.

At least, you knew

that there’s nothing new about that view,

that anytime you shrug

the tempo of buildings and cranes

dissipates

before the veteran face

of your stupendous languor.