Former farmland, now
buildings rise up and greet me,
I’d rather have them than the trees,
I walk along and there’s enough shade
and more light than otherwise.
Behind the corner are gargoyle bodies,
heads of the despondent poking out
ready to be spouts of praise
asking for coins to dance in their cups.
In the ruins of the ruins to be
assembled into new buildings
useful for everyone coming
from uptown, there are bodies
wearing heads like polyps,
broken off and hanging
under the fluorescent outdoor lights,
none casts a shadow, their smiles
keep away such darkness.
One had his head bowed down,
a hood drawn over the skin,
two hands raised to support
his humility trying to fall to earth,
praying or asleep,
either way, there is release.
Across the street, an angel comes,
blonde hair holding the last remains
of the day’s sunlight,
she turns the corner and escapes
a bus coming down across a tide
of taxicabs, splitting dirty yellow waves,
her shirt rises up on her back
and reveals a target, something
I wish I could reach out and hit.
Ben Nardolilli is a twenty five year old writer currently living in Arlington, Virginia. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, and Yes Poetry.