They come
even this drizzled autumn day,
when the soaring glass shields fade into brushed skyline mists,
and the city streets wring in the squishing sounds of three days rain,
lifting my dog-ear to the street rut splashes,
emptying sheet metal eaves,
soggy shoe squeaks
in my mad umbrella dash-
They assemble,
on this corner of downtown,
like confessional church-goers cued by the bell,
upon the trampled winter rye of the grassy knoll,
and along the sidewalk lined memorial,
with reflection pools dotted in gunshot echoed ripples.
They mostly just stand there,
in anonymous November patronage,
silhouettes to history,
poor creatures standing wet,
homeless to a generation’s dream,
settling instead for sedimentary realities.
From my rail car vantage,
passing over Commerce Street,
I take in this annual observance,
in studied glimpses,
my ear-jammed phones,
strangely encapsulating yet transporting me,
like a film editor before a movie track score,
my camera eye peering through fogging panes,
catching in light prisms,
this inextricable tale of two cities.
-Mark Trubisky
Copyright © 2002 Yellow Brick Road Gallery. All
rights reserved in pictorial or written representation.
Revised: 01/07/06.