[Domenico Scarlatti, Daria van den Bercken]
Car tires rush through and announce the rain. You can hear
the shuffling of someone street sweeping in the street.
The insistent men outside Stingray’s, the cutoff lull
of ambulance testing siren, the women. who step in the street and yell
to anyone they loved once and it sounds like prelude if
Scarlatti hadn’t moved to Madrid
would he have moved the notes diatonically as the rain falls up
a roof. ascends the scaffolding. It’s impossible to read The Street
without seeing Mrs. Hedges on mine. leaning from a window on the ground
level of my building peering out under her red bandana considering
me as I lean my body over the railing and watch the men dressed
black and in gray I tell a man to stop peeing on my car and when
he turns around. he is not surprised. He says
he isn’t peeing, he
is counting his money.
