Huron Street

by M.G. Warenycia

Under gable and turret shadows weave

Over painted brick with ivy fingers

Lacing through flower-carved eaves

Where the stranger’s meditation lingers

As laughter floats through linden leaves.

Dormer and bay peep with yellow lights

At the velvet dark of the summer night.

The streets this late are good for wandering,

Empty, so the thoughts can crowd for pondering.

The pho joint’s still there, and the cheapo beer,

But the bookstore’s a ghost, and posters few

Tell of ‘scenes’ vanished like the dew,

And the light in the parkette is admitting to fear.

The subway lurches a final shudder;

For homebound drunks the streetcar tolls—

Sounds that recall days of learning and leisure

As hard to hold on to as wayward souls.

Their rented fortress was a fragment in time

As fabled and fragile as the city’s clime,

Whose earnest languor makes the heart grow sick

While darkness deepens and memory flows thick;

Hurry, like a leaf upon wind-lashed stream,

Along the pavement, where neon ripples gleam

Warm as once was spring’s rosy dream.