
.
An old window in an old, damaged wall,
Reflecting a building across the way,
Lures only child passerby,
The common fate of minor wonders.

.
With the sun to his left, below the trees
–The golden hour for photography —
He looks down the north end of Charlotte.
He’s covered this street twice recently,
So, there’s no more to camera-capture,
But he turns and walks it nonetheless,
For it is a quiet and pleasant street,
The time is now golden,
And he has no promises to keep.

Mounted on horse, zebra, or lion,
The riders circle toward the river in perfect formation,
Then circling away only to return,
Their thoughts captured by the passing boat
And how pleasant the skyline from that distance.
.
Maintaining their balance on deck,
The passengers gaze toward Brooklyn in reasonable formation
Then facing the skyline only to return,
Their thoughts captured by the carousel
And how pleasant the skyline from that distance.

Soon it will be seven, and the bridge master will raise the drawbridge for the first time.
The gears will bellow as the plates bend upward tall-masted ships released at last will ease through the opening churning the waters as they pass soon after that the plates will descend again and the line of waiting cars long now will pour onto Cathedral Street hood-to-trunk hand-to-horn jockeying for too few parking spaces this will play out every half hour again and again and again till seven p.m.
But not at this moment.