Poetry

Wet Pavement

Satellite dishes blossom and grow as
wire vines twist across balcony branches,
inhaling the ice within the wind.
Below, streetlights slip down car mirrors,
guiding the motorway that washes up
into the hills, which frame the charcoal sky.
The air smolders and wheezes down on
empty streets, sucking at brittle windows
and caressing clothes left out to dry.

From the pavement the sight of the city
becomes soft and hazy as thick winds of
fog consume all but the council blocks,
towers that rise like fingers beneath
gravel. They grope at the moon, wading
away waning clouds that cling to rooftop
antennae and rows of telegraph poles.
The haze slowly lifts and morning’s sterile
light leaves only frost on windowsills.

Jack Browne