For several mornings in a row
A bird flew into the gap
Between the bricks
Of a building about to be demolished.
It scratched and pecked
And occasionally chirped.
On the morning the wreckers arrive,
It emits a six-note song
That fills the derelict rooms
With a livelier tune
Than they’d heard before.

**

Ghost-like winds
Dance among sky-probing towers
That seem not quite rooted to the earth
And shake them,
While workers inside,
Barely notice the tremor
And continue to complain about
Overtime and low pay.

**
Faces on the subway
We’ll never see again.
Our common sensuality
Attracts us to each other
This Friday afternoon,
Eyes that rove
And mouths that open
Almost to speak.

**

The tawny-haired owner of a bookstore
Sells me a copy of Yeats.
I’ve seen her a dozen times, I guess.
She’s usually pert and distant, so you think
You have to prove yourself to her.
“You ought to be more amiable,” I say.
She looks at me sharply as if in reproach.
“Will you come with me for coffee?”
I ask. I see in her eyes
The same look I’ve noticed before,
Part steely but this time also
Laced with amusement.
She makes me wait. The phone rings.
Another customer comes in.
They talk forever while I look
Through her books as patiently
As I can and take a Dylan Thomas
From the shelf, which I bring to the cash.
“I close in fifteen minutes,” she says
After the fellow finally leaves.
“You might as well wait here.
Where would you like to go?”
What do I do to get this to turn out well?

**

Dusk. A street corner.
A juggler’s spinning balls
Draw a dozen onlookers
Who smile when they see
How intently he concentrates.
The light that shines in him
Also shines in everyone.

**

Plangent sounds that slide
From the oval of a trumpet
In a hotel night club
Encourage the reluctant to dance.
The trumpeter wants
A different life from the one he has,
Ulysses on the sea or Hercules
Or even General Brock.
“The two people who sing with us,” he says
“Look interesting under the lights,
But they’re not very nice.”
When he finishes his set,
The patrons whistle and clap.
Two of them, who like flowing lines of melody,
Think that sometimes their situation
Isn’t so bad after all.

**

Three Refugees
The confiding whispers
Of a cabbie from Beirut
To a youthful dark-haired friend
Remind me of times I’ve
Spent away from home myself.
And in the late-night darkness
(With cold rain on the window glass),
Muffled in a robe of waking dreams,
I know their faith by halves or tenths.