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All Things May Come
H. Stanbrough

The narrow street at six p.m. is heavy
burdened so with loiters and bums
it seems to tilt. The shadows of the high

rise buildings slice the curb, and passers-by
cough exhaust along the fume-choked sidewalks,
soot the one ingredient that’s missing

from this Dickensian inner city.
Churchbells chime and dowdy ladies trundle
children toward the sound. Mustn’t keep Jesus

waiting. Waiting seems a nobler cause
to some, just risen from a huddled doorway;
they’ve learned that rushing does no good. In time

all things may come to those who wait.
A cop wanders past the empty stores and faces
himself in a window, turns and nods

You’re no trouble are you? half to me,
half to the air, rises on his toes
and moves away with just one backward glance.

The shadows lengthen quickly in an hour
and usher in a chill that settles deeply,
offering no solace for these streets:

not a prelude to a new dawning;
not a harbinger of peaceful sleep;
not so much a blanket as a shroud.