Shaded

We engrave our days in silver clouds,
and shatter fountain statues late
at night where no one waits around.
Bike wheels blend one road in with dozens
lost among the cross streets.

People shake off jackets when the rain stops
and the fog takes over every brick-red corner.
The big hats hang on hooks at home
not needed here with everything so shaded.

Strays paw at non-existent fish
in puddles at the mouths of alleys
behind restaurants where everyone
scowls at the line cook
with bandaged hands.

A tired patron takes her hair down
before picking up her glass a bit too tightly,
and it cuts her where the rim is chipped.
She doesn’t feel it and bleeds all across
the tablecloth.

Construction workers wrapped in orange
eat lunch out of metal boxes
in the middle of the project,
a new bridge across a shallow river.
Only about halfway built,
but stretching out into the quiet mist,
it almost looked as though it were complete.