all of our portland under the sun

the gleaming hallucentation of river light
reflecting up and cast upon
the red brick of this brownstone stoop
is enough to make the bridges sigh
and to make the sky scrapers stretch
a little higher into that blue blue blue
and there's a girl out on her
iron folliage balcony
calling down to her lover who
smiles up while sitting on his
old ancient beat up motorcycle
and in the distance behind him
the light rail train is cutting
through the mess of downtown
summer street constructions
ducking under overpasses and
shooting through tunnels
and there's a boy on that train
who is pressing his small hands
up against the glass
staring out at urban elephant circuses
which reside near the cobble stone
saturday market of skidmore row
and the thick textured aromas and colors
rise like the flapping of old crows
and small sparrows which soar
up and around the pillars of glass
and then drop down into the day dream rows
of sweet afternoon sidewalk cafes
which surround the epic illusion of the
grand old bagdad theater where an
old man with a cane and a white hate
is writing a letter to a friend in Italy
making note on the page of a little girl
with a ribbon in her hair who is
holding hands wither her punked out father
and the old man sighs as he watches
her blue balloon drift and bob in mid-air
before he turns and watches the sun sink down
toward the ridgeline of the west hills
the way he's done a thousand times before
and the golden glow of the setting sun
sends a blanket of color
down on the magic metropolitan fantasy
where every westward window
radiates a portrait of that shine out into the streets
and illuminates every leaf of every tree which
sways in the subtle warmth of the wind
and the long gorgeous shadows of those trees
stretch across the face of a teenage girl
who is considering strolling to the library
because she has a crush on a young clerk there
and so she waits at the intersection
for the walk light to turn green so
that she can check out books for
the fourth day in a row
and as she ascends the steps towards that literary cathedral
she passes a pack of alternative beat kids
who share smokes and tell jokes
smiling as time passes, they wait
for the glorious hallelujah of a musical prophet
who will be playing later down at the ballroom
they are waiting for the moon,
the gleaming hallucination of river light
reflecting up and cast upon
the red brick of this brownstone stoop

written by emily