City

this icy winter street
still trying to sell stereos
to BUY GOLD
you read the graffiti
of writers died lifetimes ago
bullets in their spines
knives in their bellies
their sons businessmen
far away laughing
there is the fried chicken place
with the funny red and white striped cupola
it’s become a mosque
faces come towards you
and float behind you
like a river going around you
you feel the pull of its air
how delicious it is
the strange perfume of a woman
smiling daggers at you
without any words
says “maybe” and “never”
just like this street
that pretends to change