Poetry

Tony in the afternoon

The cross on top of the refurbished bank
floats on the line of the distant trees.
Work stops. Computer hacks write poems.
Haze gathers; the AC units
across the road blow pointy steam.
Work stops. The internet radio player
tips and taps pharmaceutical jazz.
Cross-eyed dozers awake for crows.
Work stops. The city is crawling to five.
The graphic artist clicks her Macintosh
and pens dry up momentarily. It's cold.
The dead are grateful. Work stops. Across
the town a young woman studies. The rain
doesn't fall. The day crawls. It's four-oh-nine.
The birds buzz over the shed-like roof
of the ex-office church. The sun stares. She pulls
the blind.