Urban Gallery Poem by Rachel Todd Wetzsteon

When the wind invades the treetops
and the trees agree, shivering
take me, take me, when their
stealthy perfume drifts down to waft
among mortals, they come out in droves:
the boy whose bouncing keys speak a language
all their own, the novice who gets her tricks
from magazine molls (their haughtiness, swirl
of cleats), the gigolo with eyes lowered,
the better to judge his prey, the woman
whose hemlines rise as her age does,
the bad girl whose only remaining option
is to get worse: despite the string of cheats
and lukewarm reactions, she still has
the power to pound, the knack of
funneling her frustration into
the arrogant click of a heel . . .
at this armada of proud, unyielding soldiers
I have cast ferocious stones, holding forth
on barricaded gardens and souls' communion
until, heaving my bones from garret to gutter
I took to the street and saw it, too, was worthy.
Chasers out for a good time, flirters in
for a life's catch, strutters so skilled your
lurid designs burn holes, kill the cold
in the pavement, it does not matter
what fever you feed, so long as
you feed it freely; I hid my eyes
but sickness is catching; lovers, permit me entrance.