The Melancholy and Mystery of a Street

what has escaped from the wagon?
I sense the shadows prowling. ominous
atmosphere, soundless footfalls,
soundless, earthy pounding

siesta hour, a street of diagonals,
the promenade of arches draws
a half-inch horizon,
and a sick aqua sky is thrown up;

I am drawn to
the shadow of a statue
obtruding past a corner
like a dark secret stain
the light is as harsh as bricks.

I'm the girl bowling my hoop
past the wagon. its doors stand
open, emptiness gathering

the red flag furls.
I'm bowling up the melancholy street
a shadow, a shadow
my hackles up and my hair blown out
in mid-step.