the oil stains, splattered across the awnings of bakeries,
remnants of the now-gone air conditioners–
childrens’ bicycles shoved behind boxes in softened alleyways.
either to be tossed to the garbage trucks or to be hidden.
no one truly knows–
booted legs crossed on cafe tables placed on the inner sidewalk.
hats that don’t serve a purpose, barely covering the top of heads, let alone ears–
dogs in red parks, leaping over (or in) mud pits to reach
even dirtier balls, once bright neon. dancing in autumnal winds–
sticky laundromats that look wrinkled with age, sunken into
the plasticky beige tiles–
every woman, a prospective muse.
every man, a crook with ulterior motives.
lo! they all adorn trench coats–
melon rinds that partially stick out of emerald green trash cans–
tutu-wearing girls holding apples, endlessly shining the peel,
waiting for the perfect shade of crimson to burst–
winter mulch piles in the entrance of every park.
ornaments still left on, little golden tinsel.
