walking 60 blocks downtown
night two paces in front
first warm draft in weeks
the sidewalk pulpy, yielding
three stops only: mr. softee espresso and a spirit
winking at the one who snaps a light
and you don’t normally do that
the big tower lit green like
a west egg ballast
and the city is a
convertible with the roof cracked wide
and bombinates
i’m still here
i’m still here
and if you had a better
way to say invincible
you would.

(why hello, spring).