My America
Searching for thai food on brick streets
listening for street jazz, the jazz of the street.
Today is tuesday in a sting of tuesdays,
melted and blonde, noises buried in places
parts of speech and everyone, besides me,
beside me the night stillness is a cold breath
and the ants run for dirt filled holes the
city is a heaven full of angels asking for
change and rows of trash cans turned
steel drums by vibrant hands with
parking meters clicking off the hours
every bar is an aquarium
of chit-chat and sports jackets except for one
whose stale air huddles around a hooker
by the juke-box walking besides me is a poet
who swears Kundera is a prophet or the
waking man and the clap of his boots
on the brick moves a beat a glass door
swings and a pocket full of cash hurrie to
his car and we laugh because he looks like
my fathercinching up his belt, cinching and
walking traffic is an interesting monotone of
brakes horns when some guys steps in front
of us asking for a light there is light
everywhere and he wants mine trading a light
for a smoke the earth spins backwards as we
stand on the edge looking over
without a restaurant in sight.
Hao Nguyen