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Signature
In Sleepless Babylon
where the drapes are caked brown,
where the red bantu left
his spear leaning against
a brick wall, I lost
my shoes to the thick cold mud.
Well past midnight
men played cards in
the dimestore window
lit by yellow trees.
From the branches parrots hung
upside down
chattering like fish
with quarters in their
shiny mouths.
As I stepped across
a puddle, a yellow
bus splattered me,
the driver shuddering
his door. I traded
my ticket for some
change and went
to sit on a bench.
I heard great sweeping
wingbeats, the high-
pitched notes of a clarinet,
a tired tooting
coming from the tiled rooftops.
This is awful,
the furry nun said
and fell into a prayer,
a long susurrus
while she dipped
her tail in indigo
and signed her name
on the long white stripe.
Jeff Friedman
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