Something about Dizzy playing Tin Tin Deo 
is driving a city street
a slow in the summer whale of a car
when even without accelerating 
you are making every light
and the song is both your driving 
and on the radio at the same time:

and it’s the shadow and shine 
of early evening in ticker pickets: 
the apartment buildings, the gaps
the cross streets.

And it’s a wild assed cloud race
around the buildings
the sky trailing chalk dust
light blues and little greys
that once were white

funhouse mirror clouds
a distortion of movement
making the skyscrapers
bend and rush:

only the moon’s stationary
a dry socket pressed
into the smudge background.

And it’s a man running down the street
the diesel of the bus
just a mild hook to grab his shirt collar 
and drag him along toward the signal
he hopes will not change colors
before he slaps the door
and the driver looks
with joyous surprise
and the gates open with a gasp
like some story in some mythology
neither one knows about:

but the man’s panting: and his chest’s
turned to water and grape vines
to tangle like a squeezing fist
out of breath: 
uncertain what to expect next.

And the horns play 
like the tuck and shuffle traffic
nothing side street:

like a child who darts from behind a car:
the taxi blare, the swerve

the way people turn to see
how somehow nothing happened
the vibraphone city sunlight
on shop windows, on awning drip

and then like the boy rounding the brick corner
his shirt, his jeans, his gym shoes forgotten already
it is all radiate, float, glimmer, boast, trill, rise
about getting somewhere 
but not being somewhere.

And it’s like the lover’s stroke

when you hang your toes over the curb
cross against the light
even brush the rear quarter panel
of the passing sedan
sense it slide against your palm
feel the taillight brush against your thigh.

Photo by Wim van ‘t Einde on Unsplash