Faces

The spine of my street
wakes up one house vertebrae at a time.
Here a light on, there a dog bark,
across the street at the telephone building
a gate slams and a truck
starts its day crisscrossing
the corpus of the city.

I spend the day looking for faces,
not everyone’s work face
but the ones that say,
in a moment of quick freshness,
like bread from the oven,
“this is my grandson,”
from the parking lot attendant
and “it’s nice to see you again,”
from the pie lady.

I found a dead hawk
in my street yesterday morning
lying belly up, wings spread,
already food for fellow blackbirds.
The space around it let cars
through, but in a different way,
so the hawk had time
to adjust her eyes to the new horizon
and take one last look around.

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