Quarter moon hangs yellow
in a near-forgotten sky
the stars, aligned so randomly
flecks of metalWe have no dead end signs
shimmering
on East Street
on East Streetwe’re a thoroughfare combined…
withHouses full of people, waiting to emerge
upon a busy morn, see the garbage cans along the curb,
on East Streetthe buses rumble by
on East Streetwe never seem to mind…
copyright 1987
Used with permission only
