Urbs in Horto
this is the city smiling in her lees
the trestles bear the pigeons paired
arch and attic swoop of roof
this is the soft affectionate sound of a cork
slipping from the wine bottle’s mouth
amplified to a scream at the runway’s end
here is yesterday trying to look like tomorrow
a whole neighborhood with champagne vinyl
laid over masonry, residents’ faces lifted to match
there are the places homemade bitters won’t go
kids can buy dope but can’t get the news
and when a school closes, worn shoes keep walking
here is the stoplight and its moneygrab eye flashing
green-red-green-red-green-red but exit the bar
stare back and see red-green-red-green-red-green
there are three sparrows squabbling over
a bit of bagel sitting in the heat-steamed street
outside the bus stop where the drunks like to pee
here are wet slicks of moonshine that shiver
at the grumbling train’s approach
a sweetness spilled joyful at the first wet whiff
of a sudden and inconstant spring
vote early, vote often
vote sleep it off like another bad binge.
Betty Scott is a bookseller by day and reviewer/poet/novelist by night. Her work has appeared in Literary Orphans, Slipstream, and Untoward.