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

children play

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.