Loafing on the street in front of the seven eleven
the sun is burning white, glaring louder than sound.
I watch
...as the working girl smiles vacantly
...as the colors fly from bony shoulders of angry youth
...as the cop leans against his car, arms crossed
...as the wino swallows in his muscatel dreams
Scraping sound of paper
being pushed
against dusty mica imbedded concrete.
Heat blowing ahead of the tangle of loose paper,
sudden roar of wind
The paper folds itself into
a horse of dirty white.
Still smiling, the working girl mounts.
She nods as the colors clothed youth
hands her his hat and with his bat
mounts the red horse, folding itself from the stack
of pamphlets that extol the virtues of an inaccessible society.
The cop balances on his
car,
waiting for the black horse
folding itself from trash bags,
and the wino wakens enough
to mount the moldy horse
folding itself from grease soaked paper.
They have been waiting.