August

I happen to part the curtains at the very moment
a man is being held by the arm, by two people, two stories up.
He is straddling space with a pick-axe over the thick black wires
to grab a shaggy winter coat that had fallen on the line
above the traffic.

It is August.

I take my dog out for a walk.
A tall man in a back yard is facing the side street as I walk by.
The arc of urine catches my eye. I look away.
I turn the corner, notice
the boys leaning out of the barber shop window to watch him.

I go home and hold up my falling down house by working on a painting.

Two new tenants have moved in across the street
each with two pit bulls.
They sit on the porch and angrily try to reason with their barking dogs
while ignoring their children, except for Arianna,
who is everyone's alarm clock in the morning.