Revival

Today, turning left on 13th street,
a lady pushes her bike with a glass door
riding the seat and handle bars.
Near red light dirty laundry bodies,
I am an eyelash away from saluting a
neat row of black trash cans and that
lady walking faster now, floating the door toward
18th street truisms touting, "the blues are dead!"
String them like fish treading water, perched
on corners bobbing like dark moons' dim bulbs.
Ornamental trees bow to pray, patient vigil,
someone care about their future, just today,
the same as yesterday. I lean against the steering
wheel of my grey Pathfinder. Wonder is my prayer
where the sidewalks are ashtrays,
where surely they once believed in music,
or goulash, or the playground rocks that scuffed
their shoes, slid the bases, scratched waxed floors,
or lunchroom steps. They must have believed
in the dignity of blankets, clover, or claret purple
butterfly blooms.