HIROSHIMA STREETCAR

Car 653 rumbles through downtown,
past granite lions guarding a department store,
along a square kilometer of bars and clubs
(packed and loud even on weekday nights)
toward Peace Park where brightly colored
paper cranes come each morning to roost
under the statue of a twelve-year old girl.
Sad at dusk to see custodians remove
garlands of origami wings crippled by rain.

My tram steams on in a lake of immaculate
taxi cabs and their white gloved drivers;
traffic signals chime a lullaby to the old
and blind: safe now, please cross now.

We�ve stopped at that exact spot
304.8 meters below the airburst.
Now sudden white ferocity lashes out of the
neon smeared night � a short in the overhead
wires whirls out sparks and sizzles and pops;
not a word nor blink from other passengers,
hugging themselves to sleep until their stops.