The sound of buses invades the day,
excavated roads, dust-filled mornings.
They’re widening the city roads,
moving concrete here and there,
stripping away the earth, making
everything better; it’s the same
as yesterday, with men’s names
carved in streets.
I pick up a grackle’s
feather and place it on
the coffee table by
a shell you found by the shore.
You prepare a salad:
and almonds; sprinkle it
with honey vinaigrette
to quench the appetite,
the aroma of sautéed
shrimp and garlic
fills the house.
I try to relax to the sound of buses,
permanent and intact on lost hours,
crossing streets and ascending,
while angels fly to their towers
to guard the borders of this city.