Pavement

He didn’t even break his stride,

just swung his leather briefcase wide.

The sparrow was a damp, brown clump

pressed against the concrete pump.

When I came back, the sun was high,

and ants were busy in the eye.

The feathers had that gasoline sheen,

a oily rainbow, sharp and green,

dragged through the grit and the city salt.

I stood there looking for whose fault

it was that the wings were folded tight,

lost in the middle of the noon-day light.