Alphabet City

While it’s just an Autumn Friday,
it somehow seems more than that,
preordained a holy day
but by whom, I couldn’t know.

It does feel special –
a canoe carved in time
that I feel I’m obliged,
even intended to lie in,

lay low
to shoot the rapids,
braced in a four-point stance.

I look up, see nothing
but sky in constellation,
water founts arc the lip,
refresh but nearly drown me.

On this day of reclamation,
nocturnes for atonement
pipe through vents
that rim the sky (good bass
– it sounds like vinyl)
push cold air.

And I sense there’s someone out there,
maybe a Being or two,
masterminds, big kahuna,
a capo, a boss,
a God.

Murmuring I can’t distinguish
clearly, the words incanted,
more than prayers, I think
perhaps formulae.

Or maybe it’s just two Angels
out for kicks on a Friday night,
the weekend’s tip

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