These are streets that are
Familiar with a brief love.
The walls inhale lives and secrets,
Chapped lips and cigarettes;
And all that is left is
A yellowing foliage
Against a grey backdrop.
And on the corner sits
An elderly saxophonist who
Tosses his riffs
Into the air;
Melodies that
Rise and
Refrain,
That fall with the sunlight,
And flutter and land:
Lining the pathways
And lining the drains.

Bump? At least tear it to pieces =(