But I think I know how to feel.
Down on the cold gray concrete,
where blood mingles with oil and
drains into the sewer,
someone rushes by –
running fast, breathing hard.
Tears mingle with the blood,
mingle with the oil,
and across the street, coffee spills down
a long, narrow, toffee colored drain; copper.
It all falls together;
puddles in the smoke filled street
before rushing on to another place
where it ribbons a bright blue highway.
Fish swim it, and there
making boats out of leaves
whose crisp bright outlines
waver in the eddy
discussing with the wind
it’s own navigation plans
and the bright yellow balloon floats ever upward.
I don’t know what to think about all I see,
but I think I know how to feel.