Tomorrow the sun rises
just a notch more south
than this morning
and as the edge of now
carves another channel
in the bone of my being
atop the bridge,
flags dance in time
to a gentle summer breeze.
I write on Manhattan side,
as a ciggie threatens to burn
yellowed fingers.
Three Britons ask me
to take their picture,
but two dimensions are not enough
to hold the scent of the river,
the golden taste of tobacco,
and the soft touch of their words.
