avenue

there's too many 
so many people living
on my street & it's night time.
the sidewalks as belt loops
thatching us together.
clapping in the windows
can indicate a birthday.
whoever's birthday it is
i hope the cake is chocolate
or at least has a frosting
rose. how old are
you now? pastry boxes
stacked on top of each
other-- tumbling. the cars
conduct themselves, their
seamless migration back
& forth to either side 
of the street. the porches
shared by squirrels & cigarettes.
mailboxes wishing everyone
could sleep so they could
read the mail aloud. 
my house gets mail for
people who no longer live
here. John & Lindsay 
& Olivia wherever they may be.
the stack lives inside
the door in case 
they return. a box of
pizza grows legs & rings
a doorbell. the grass
itches & asks for 
bare feet. do birds sleep?
a pigeon on my stoop
eating a kernel of star.
the planets are so
tired here, new york city 
a hot tongue in the horizon.
but here is my street,
lit yellow windows, 
headlights crawling on
the walls, a stroller
pushing itself. someone's
baby is crying, someone's
dog without a collar.
the thai restaurant
whose back door is
opening & closing &
opening & closing.
the dumpster fat with
broken furniture.
i don't think people
stay here long. 
the driveway jammed
four cars deep.
an ambulance snoring. 
i don't know how long
i will stay here.
wednesday
is a kind of mother,
lugging trash to
the curb. the green 
man full of bottles.
black  plastic bags.
night time walkers
are either ghosts or
restless or hungry
or all three.
i looked down when they
walk by so they 
won't see me from
the white plastic chair
on my porch.
my street has so many
people.