Photo by Christopher Raley

Outside the Record Store

There’s a sheen
like sunlight through smoke
yet without the acrid smell.
Concrete bakes in
atmosphere’s strange oven.
The sun is bright
but the sky is dull.

Across the intersection
two children play
in fountains.
Their spattering
sounds are run over
when traffic charges green.

Air’s single depth
accepts as one brightness
sparkle of waterjets,
dust of exhaust.
I wait on the corner,
outside the record store,
to cross and I wonder
what burns that gives
all signs of itself
but one?