When the City Turns Its Mirrors

At dusk the storefront glass begins to breathe, holding the last gold buses like small comets, while rain threads neon into the gutters and the sidewalks tune themselves to footsteps.

A florist locks up, leaving peonies in shadow, petals bright as mouths that almost spoke; steam climbs from a grate in slow white phrases, a saxophone somewhere bending the wet air thinner.

In each window, strangers pass through one another, coat collars, briefcases, an armful of bread, and for a second every life is lanterned, visible, trembling, then carried downstream.

By midnight even the traffic lights grow tender, red pooling on the hoods of parked cars. The whole city keeps looking at itself, until morning wipes the mirrors clean.