Hudson Avenue, 10 p.m.

Sepia streetlight, gold patina
on green leaves. A vine of ink emerges
from a short sleeve. Pre-fourth fireworks
like distant thunder or gunfire,
sharp reports bouncing off
the cool, hard plaza. A bouquet of pink
in the sky, for a moment.
A sing-song voice, words indistinct
behind closed windows. More jagged,
weedy leaves in my impatiens
the longer I look. One piece
of neon at the corner--
Lark Street calling.
The sameness of tires
on pavement. And there
I am, on the stoop, under
the light. A sailboat in irons,
waiting for the wind's push,
this way or that.