Twenty dollars lies face-down in a gutter,
half ink and sand, soaking the afternoon.
Shriveled money has lately
Spread over a rising quarter moon.
There sitting with his sign, a Vet. in rags
Lets on that all's typical,
And past the intersection go clerks in flimsy slacks
To whole stores of typical.
Soon large blasts join
Gunpowder air to rusty tail-pipes,
And leaves shower the streets
Between drooping chins and taillights.
Banks disintegrated with most their leaves
That swirl round the nodding sorters,
Yet the mechanism still ho-heaves.
Eyes outside Carl's Jr. open to shakes in hand.
Their roaring skates tear the ordered commotion,
Always laughing at the to-and-fro around.