She Sings Above Machines

This overcast morning,
the air wet with humidity
and noise, I mistook
the song of a locust
for machines, as she
struggled to be heard
over the ongoing moan
of air conditioners.

I fear this marks
the onset of some
strange mental illness
where soon I will hear
automobiles where
there is birdsong, and
mistake the cacklng squirrels
for lawnmowers.

Near Midnight

It is nearly midnight
and there are several conversations happening
in my neighborhood.

Across the street to the northwest
a couple seems to argue, until one of them
says "Ronald Reagan," and then there is laughter.

Across the street to the northeast
I hear the crack opening of a beer can and a heavy voice
that grows angrier as others correct him.

I am going to bed.
No one else in this neighborhood
will be up before noon.

Homer Street

If you remove the asphalt
there is brick, and if you
remove those bricks,
there is dirt.  She was there
when the road was dirt
and they filled its holes
with cinders from the furnace.

She and my grandfather,
along with some neighbors
petitioned the city to pave
the road, and they agreed
saying, "Soon, all of the city
streets will be paved."
It seemed unbelievable, she said.