Magic
in an empty mucky street
where the donkeys walk with tied legs
and the muted clopping of their feet
is the prelude to the dumpster on the corner
urinal for men and foodstore for the cows
which snuggle up to the steel for the afternoon
The temple opposite is painted brightly
The old couple that sits on the steps can’t see the color
But they know who we are that walk down the road
They hear the coins in your pocket, the guilt in your throat
They hear the rain rolling off the cows’ thick hides
and they call out, softly, as I walk on by.
