Sunday A.M. Not in Manhattan

Across the street, closed shops
Where glass reflects this wide
Light only, or faintly
Etched on the sky, trolley
Lines that the overhead,
Half-open windows are
Thinking. Long, slant shadows
Cast on the wan concrete
Are of nearby fallen
Verticals not ourselves.

Lying longest, most still,
Along the unsigned blank
Of sidewalk, the narrowed
Finger of shade left by
Something, thicker than trees,
Taller than these streetlamps,
Somewhere off to the right
Perhaps, and unlike an
Intrusion of ourselves,
Unseen, long, is claiming
It all, the scene, the whole.