| Amanda Kalaydjian |
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| City Street On cornerstone evenings, When walking is not a chore Where jazz is the perfume of the night and Voices are a candle that whispers In the cellar bars on every street Worn ladies, old like peeling paint Sing of their saxophone blues Lonely men sit at round wood tables, Their eyes a bullet, Skin like rotten vegetables And they listen, Listen to The low breathing As rings of smoke rise like Music notes written in skin Evenings with mannequin faces on the glass, Bodies thin as pressed leaves, Footsteps are a drumbeat. And the city street reflects in the moon, Clear as a young lake, and Glowing. |
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