As the sun fell, we headed to the light
that is Downtown. We see the city’s strings,
the cars lined up on the road,
little ants under the Queen, the tower.
Red are the ants’ eyes, cooled by the tower’s blues,
while the whites and blacks are brought by the people.
It’s almost six o’clock, and the restaurants fill with people.
All the young couples laughing under small light,
while soft jazz plays its blues.
A man leans over to fix a woman’s dress strings,
while she gazes out at the tower.
A plastic bag floats onto the road.
The white walking-man let us cross the road,
stepping out into the milling people,
taking in the buildings that tower
over us in the growing light.
One by one, the eyes of the building blink on and the strings
of the lamps are cast in black-blues.
We enter the Hall, and the sound of brassy blues
awakens our minds and leaves our bodies on the road.
The trumpets and cymbals sing with the strings,
while the man with the baton holds the people
in awe, making them think they have found the light,
that they are soaring above the heavenly tower.
Some have tried to paint this tower
in the next building over, with vibrant blues
on a canvas that hangs in the light
of the Modern Art display. The road
crunches and screeches, and the people
file in and out–but never once have moved the canvas strings.
We climb to the top of the building, with the strings
of my hair blown back and the tower,
above us, watching over the people.
Memories drifted by in the wind and bittersweet blues
sunk into my heart and down to the road,
a city sprawled below and aglow with light.
The bow leaves the strings and the sun brings back light.
Warm are the people, relieved of their blues.
We look up one last time at the tower, and drive down the road.