Random Acts of Poetry

Meander

For a moment,
the shining street was lost.
Fog curtain,

Heliopolis behind a scrim.
The day found definition
in a ghost aperture.

I passed blunt corners
where stoics stood implacable
as kings on playing cards.

At Riverview's promenade
the gray birds were massing--
rock dove, living stone.

On the spiral walk
a figure beckoned
between ash and sycamore.

I stepped forward;
someone said, "Here you are."
Was I sorry I had come?