Looker

New gates up
in the neighborhood
cast iron always
way too hot to climb.
Brown hair pulled back into a ponytail
the oak tree leaves like emeralds
in the foreground.

That orange dress
a flame around her
at the concert
where the guitar
smothered every thought
excluding her.

She could fold me
like a paper plane
and send me sailing
off the continent
until I gently touch down
somewhere in the sea.

I look away
and stay put here
in the shade of some old
warehouse where the windows
all are broken out,
and the remaining glass
is jagged keeping
strangers in the street
where they belong.