the sun watches the retreating fog
as she lulls over a geometric horizon,
fat brick buildings pretending
to be taller than they are.

the street vendors fight
for their corners on the sidewalk;
foreign cursing heralds the rise from slumber
and the smell of coffee and grease
overtakes the streets.

old men and dark men,
already huddled in the plaza,
argue over their hats,
and wait for buses
as old and dark as they are.

the suits, rarely seen,
dart from car to office
and escape sight until after noon,
pouring together into the streets
like an exotic parade.

five o'clock heralds a homeward migration
while the young smear on color
to prepare for the beginning of their day.

the night beckons with long legs,
red lights, and bass that vibrates the streets.
their blood is music, drink, debauchery;
their lives are quick and painless.

smoke pours from club doors
and belches out pretty girls on unsteady limbs,
drunk more on men than vodka;
another night to forget and repeat again.

but in the end,
the moon dips low and the music fades;
the sun stretches up,
and the old men take to the streets
again.