An Extraordinary Morning

waiting for the Woodward streetcar to get

dirty, and happy. Happy because they’ve

finished a short work week and if they’re not rich

they’re as close to rich as they’ll ever be

in this town. Are they truly brothers?

You could ask the husky one, the one

in the black jacket he fills to bursting;

he seems friendly enough, snapping

his fingers while he shakes his ass and sings

“Sweet Lorraine,” or if you’re put off

by his mocking tone ask the one leaning

against the locked door of Ruby’s Rib Shack,

the one whose eyelids flutter in time

with nothing. Tell him it’s crucial to know

if in truth this is brotherly love. He won’t

get angry, he’s too tired for anger,

too relieved to be here, he won’t even laugh

though he’ll find you silly. It’s Thursday,

maybe a holy day somewhere else, maybe

the Sabbath, but these two, neither devout

nor cynical, have no idea how to worship

except by doing what they’re doing,

singing a song about a woman they love

merely for her name, breathing in and out

the used and soiled air they wouldn’t know

how to live without, and by filling

the twin bodies they’ve disguised as filth.