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.
1.
Outward bound
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
effortlessly
Rows of windows with frosted glass
Have prisms embedded in them,
Gleaming with the late daylight
Night watchman
2.
Homeward bound
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
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