Life Through a Window

A robot block head bent over
some Flatbush Avenue,
white as a bleached wife beater,
the air conditioner
projects west.  Adjacent,
Joe leans toward a cumulus cluttered
horizon,
eyes closed,
wanting to believe
in something above
the scream of gulls,
wings slice the air,
curved blades
across blue ether.
He follows imagination
down Familiarity Street
past honking horns
to breezy point
where it all ends
at sunset.
He wonders if,
perhaps, believes,
life is a highway,
and if so,
could I ride it
to where starlight
shines
through blinds
of uncertainty.