A high-backed, slatted chair
as throne in a long-stemmed garden.
A city beyond it with glass, suits, revelers:
It changes by the hour.
Cars bead the bridge, a laudable
organization if only we knew what it was.
Here, in a garden between houses,
the chair waits.
A person will sit and face the sun.
There will be no sun.
As now, there will be no person.