#29

Shadowboxing in a alley,
plank of a guy dancing on the balls of his feet,
a whitenoise television screen in the pavement.

Around the corner,
old man on a stationary bike, riding in place,
sharpening knives on the steel wheel.

The fighter is swinging at his own shadow,
lifted off the ground to the hum of the tires,
the empty warehouse strumming of North Hollywood.

A car pulls onto the main drag,
a long gray coffin of a car,
and a woman in a nightgown steps out,

promptly steps over to the bicycle,
takes her knives back, rounds the corner,
stares down the shadowboxer.

When he turns,
she opens her mouth--
the chorus of a thousand electronic feedbacks.