During summer, when it’s tar beach,
we spread towels, tune in Radio Seduction.
The beer drops like monsoon rain,
& car honking dissolves like waves into sand.
Buildings become tree shade, & you swear
the air’s salty sweet, like taffy.
Other days, the door creaks open
onto a bordered cloud, the sky’s
your ceiling, one rung closer
to heaven, Concrete Nirvana;
where yerba floats
like incense at a séance,
and prayers lunge for the kicks
that landed a perfect sidewalk somersault.
At night, the skyline tinkles
like cheap disco lights.
From some cloistered corner,
a capella voices echo;
timbales and trumpets duel;
a fiery sax spits out notes,
& someone always looks up to say:
if we could only see the stars.