The Flaneur never knows what he will encounter when he hits the street.
Sun still bright just before six, I set out after dinner but before coffee;
hurrying to lessen the risk that the drug store will be closed.
A heavily policed road-block occupied Washington street at Eighth. I walked on glancing at them as I waited for the crosswalk signal, with no sense I could learn what was going on.
Young stone-faced cops with wrap-around shades like me, women officers too, a general tendency toward somewhat overweight bodies in stretchy dark blue fabric.
There were no demonstrations anywhere in sight,
and no apparent criminal activity or other disorder.
A show of force intended for whom?
The everyday unexplained.
I forged on toward downtown.
Parrot tile, palm mosaic
In the city center warren of shops,
Deserted but for the ubiquitous security guards
Horus and the somnolent Nubian,
A gargantuan armed security guard
Rousted a young black guy with a bedroll
Rows of windows with frosted glass
Have prisms embedded in them,
Gleaming with the late daylight
An stately old house still standing,
No one actually lives here
A gated community of ghosts
Future home of non-existence
Last glimmer in the humble glass
12 April 2015