A City of Different Hours

The next song could be a city
with no two windows lit alike.
One burns gold with a sudden laugh,
one blue with news still settling.
Above a shop, a kitchen hum
might lean into a restless beat.

The bass could travel underground;
a rough guitar could cross its track.
A bright brass phrase might answer once,
then leave the whole street listening.

Then a stairwell.
One shoe on a step.
Waiting.

There are feelings that arrive like crowds
and feelings that need a single breath.
Some carry anger toward a change;
some hold delight without a reason
large enough to make the news.

You have asked for a wider search,
and a sound that fits the story:
which pulse, which grain of sound,
how much closeness,
how much air.

The answer may begin with silence
or open running.
A borrowed fashion offers possibilities;
the particular story chooses
what can honestly remain.

Keep the choices where tomorrow
can learn from them.
Then look again.

The city has another window,
another hour,
another weather moving in.

There is room for a rhythm
we have not yet tried,
and room for it to fail
before it finds
the shape this story needs.