Poetry
The Street
by John Gallaher
You can chase the red ball, or, in the black dress,
you can put out your right hand
so that it looks as if you're touching something
other than air.
On the street, you can shoulder a two-by-eight
in your delivery suit
past the anonymous lover
the young woman wants rid of. The hand
is a salute, isn't it? If you're the one
crossing your chest, or the one pointing to the red ball.
The young woman wishes to be anywhere else
but in his grasp, upon the sidewalk maybe,
or as a child, while the child wishes to be anyone else
but shrunken, and carried away.
You can stare away from here, in your chef hat,
on this street of blank signs
and no clutter,
and say, there is a ball, or a hoop
and a ball.