by Nicholas Gruber
but I am in the mood to strut. Along Center Street
artisan poverty charms a virile cat
like me every corner at this hour. My shadow,
so lean, sews seams through sidewalk tiles. Another mile
& I’ll be on the scene—where
hot coffee & slow curry whir the right bars
to bring treble to the air; my breath is Middle C & just
hangs out— like the sisters on the banks
of asphalt river as I pass—the call of my cull
dissolves into my shit— that
beat to warm me
as I strut
