At The Corner

The tracks are cigarette wisps
in wind and trees are jumbled
leaves of a book left in rain. 
Smile. Coda. Smile and return
again to the sadness of
glistening streets reflecting
glissando and abrupt angels.
All memory and not new
terrain.  Smile again at
memory.  Note everything well.
There are no Operas when you
find your fingers dancing in
the wrong space and time.

There is only cacophony.