you're a Brooklyn Twig
running smooth through the street, like the raw water flowing into the sewer

your hair catches the flowers, the birds and the branches in the wind, in the blood orange of 5:15

your eyes explode across your view, all the wonder and waste that red, green, and yellow lights dictate

your shoes tap against graffitti & gum-covered rock, scraping a metropolitan harmony

your thin winged lips trace the black cold air, metallic lights  & ambivalent breezes that caress brick and granite

you've been planted in the garden, acclaimed as the favorite of the season,  and your branches and roots carry a sweet song into the eyes of the boy on the wall.

Maybe, one day, he'll step into the world for you.