A couple of prostitutes step in and out
of their uncomfortable shoes
in front of Ruth's Chris Steak House.
It's late but the restaurant is still busy
with elderly tourists and Japanese businessmen.
Right across the street is the stiff solemn column
we spent hundreds of years trying to bend.
Nearby rests the ancient cicada spaceship
that spun down through a hole in the clouds
to land on a single hair curling out over the edge
of our mother's fleshy cliff.
I call myself the smallest pinch of fuzz,
the tiniest patch of bristly weeds,
I call myself the perfect scratch,
the suicidal smile. The elevator always breaks
at the same time as the washing machine.
A white van with its headlights off
glides through the intersection against the signal.
Out in the courtyard a metal detector
curls its neck back, beeping frantically
as it detects itself.