Smog at this hour?
The rising sun alone
Can turn the heavy mass
Into something visceral,
The veil that lies
Between two Irish-American hearts.
Train tracks and wooden shacks.
Houses.
The smoke is there,
Too,
Rolling off the ends of our fathers’ cigars.
I swam through it last night at the jazz bar
As it rose higher and higher,
Turning the lights as blue
As the singer’s voice.
My brother’s piano sounded the real melody,
Driving,
Like trains waking up in the morning
And chugging through back courts,
Under windows,
And out into the country.