Chimney Flue
A crumbled chimney firmly blocks
the searing winter breeze. A bit of yesterdays
paper flapping between chunks of mortar & brick
waved goodbye. Jumping, a young dove tilted
and timidly caught a gust; the little black girl
with neon beads twisted in her hair watched
from her drafty window and wished
she had that type of freedom. Seeing the paper
stuck, she thought trusting the wind
may not always be best. In the alley below,
A bohemian sonata rang from the throat
of the hopeless street performer whose face
was painted like an egg. A man
in a two day old pinstripe suit threw
three quarters into the performer’s wicker basket
walking past on his way to work
where unbeknownst to him his boss just shot
a load of semen into the new secretary;
a young man who freshly graduated university
with a bachelor’s in communications,
uncertain if he liked showing up to work early.
Time will never allow him to be anything
more than a sneeze. He sneezed simultaneously
with the little black girl after blowing off
her mother’s dusty book; that old Camus called
The Stranger. How strange her thoughts,
bouncing around like light through the glass
of her slowly dripping window, would came back
to the chimney, pondering if the air inside
its flue moved as much as the things outside,
or remained still, eavesdropping on the Earth’s
vibrant vibrations. Then, back to bouncing.