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drifting
Rain pools in shallow cracks—
mirror-puddles swallowing the streetlights,
blinking neon trapped in shifting ripples.
A palm tree bends dancing with the wind,
its shadow cast over a parking meter,
cold steel thrumming against the squall.
Petals scatter—soft, broken-colored confetti,
caught between stalwart tram rails,
where echoes of last night’s footsteps dissolve.
Stone rises, symmetrical, rigid—
glass glints, unfeeling, against the dawn.
But beneath a bridge, vines creep unnoticed,
pulling at concrete like forgotten hands.
A face, blurred against window
reflections— is it mine? A stranger’s?
No matter. The boulevard moves forward,
and so do I, unmoored, drifting.
