Air

Gusts of gentle wind spread newspapers,

dropped long ago by uncaring hands,

in back alleys that everyone sees but into which

none venture

but the wind.

Currents of slow, steady air pull on tattered streamers of sad ribbons,

Reminiscing, almost, about this parade, that grand opening,

Holding them to a perpetual, impossible feat of celebration

which they achieved once but never after,

but for the wind.

Crisp, cool breezes snap a flag,

Trodden underfoot,

cleaned up, patched, and brought out occasionally for reasons of state,

But never proudly erect,

except on those rare days, like now,

it feels

the wind.

Knots of solid air batter cracked windows

to their breaking point, sometimes.

Old houses where the crazy man lives with no one to speak to

but for

the Wind.