WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 9, 1938
Damp shroud of night;
stone-shirted streets swept bare
of leaves by fitful winds
that skitter past splintered glass,
shop mannequins beheaded
in the road. Shouts down the block
around the square. A rush of sparks
where roofs fall in, tinting the
sagging bellies of low clouds.
Smoke, and a sense of slowly
being strangled, in the air.
The century turns its flat
blank face towards me:
hefts an unholstered truncheon;
grins, and glares.
Originally published in Midstream, Vol. LIII No. 3 ( Nov/Dec 2007)