The Moya View

Listening to the City’s Ghosts

image: Eduardo Asenjo Matus.

In the blur of rain on the windshield,
in the moment it takes the blades
to wipe forward and back, he walks
into view, across your horizon,
hoodie turned up, face down,
looking no where but down, hands
in pocket— headlight specters
giving him a transparency
that forces you to a dead stop.

In that moment from left to right,
right to left, the boustrophedonic flow,
he vanishes into the next line, like all
the other spirits crying for leaving.

Now, you notice the other distances:

The old one with the white worn ball cap
and torn suede jacket leaning in a
reverse hunch on the bus bench,
his turned down knapsack at his feet-
an existence of discarded coffee cups
all around, his sad-eyed dog mirroring
his misery with a downward whine.

The vendor in the ramshackle booth selling
unsellable papers to the bowed faces
reading the gray that clouds their mind.

The lame, lonely, angry, downcasts
in the busy crowded crosswalk
bemoaning the lost past, ignoring
the reconnections walking by-e.

Those on the side searching for the
lost French fry among empty
food containers- rejecting the plea
of the woman in the llama wool cap
selling fresh clean garden fruit from
a rickety table for less than the grocery.

Smiling, silent, you lift up your empty cup-
and thinking- of all the unspoken words in
your soul, you bless these night by night
and day by day ghosts, trying but never
seeing the chance in their every day walk.





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