This Town

The alley's truth spreads in bits
of broken glass and rises from
sidewalk grates in fermented secrets
as I sprint by back entries of
taverns going to my job.

In slow night walks by the river,
I pause under a string of lights
looping a noose over tracks
trembling from yet another train I missed.

Daily I return to my job
in the gray cubicle
to feign interest in the "in" box,
the "out" box, the
gossip boxing in the insiders.

At noon I brown-bag in the governor's
garden, walk around the capital
hoping for more from eyes of statues
than I get from those in elevators
going down.

Even before the drunk rattled my door
shouting profanities, I took pictures
of lilacs bringing spring to this town.
They came back blurred, demanding
clarification.

-- Victoria Garton