Waltz

The trolley man come
past the cardboard houses
with their folded eaves,
where the doors open up
like bright yellow gills.
The north wind blow
the cock o steeple south,
the cobblestones dry,
fish guts on sticks
pirouette their prophecy.
Trolley man skid by
the yackety yak flats,
washing out in banners
teatowel flags of neighbors,
skipping ropes and carts,
kids with dirty noses
and ribbons in their hair
coddled at the waists
of the broody local girls.
The trolley clatter on
down into dusty lane
and trolley man waltz
like he did in his day
past the palisade
and the odeon
in the muddy rain.