Sunset

Brushes washed.Cans stacked.Crows crossing eastthrough copper light.A small devicechanges handsbehind a building.On the Drive,yesterday's paint cansbecome drums.Someone stops.Then another.A door opens.Music movesinto the street.People who were heading homedo not.A painterwith colour still on one sleeveleans against the walland listens.Nothing appears broken.Nobody appears to be working.And still,this feels likethe thing all the work was for.The thought arrives whole:maybe making thingsis not decorationon top of the city.Maybe it iswhat the city is tryingto remain capable of.