Cold Start

I know the stained concrete
would shiver, if not for them:
the metals and the plastics
clinging to jersey-wall toes
 
where garbage roams the overpass,
where trodden-down cardboards plead
and the rubber and the chrome admit
no, no, they have no change to spare.
 
if you look hard enough—if you listen
for that beating, quick-drying heart,
I know black smoke rises amorously
past the listless dollar stores.
 
monoxide warms a graffitied lung.
the urban cough brings light, life,
and in an instant: a stinging nose,
fingertips, the gnawing spectrum
is here.

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