Shadows cast by the evening sun grow long;
a Camel cigarette burns to my hand.
The acid smoke blinds my eyes but there is
nothing to see in my ambulation
down the street. A crowd gathers anxiously
awaiting their chance to buy ice cream.
Phoebus’s slow retreat is answered by
the awakening streetlights and the wind
tossing debris in her languid current.
A name shouted; I think it belongs to me.
My head turned, I do not see the soon-
fatal auto. My last thought is about
geometry. No mourner will ever know
this while standing in my tombstone’s shadow
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