Hey, Yo

The city has a smell,
a concrete mix
of urban ethnic essence.
Ideally, someone knows,
there has to be one person
somewhere who knew.
There is no parallel for
this unfocused vision. I go
headfirst into the shadows
inside the blender of
the many. The constant
whirring of life whirling
like the dervish, chortling
as a clown in heat.
"Hey, yo man what time
you got?" As another man
wearing everything he owns,
pushes his life slowly,
slower than his surroundings,
to somewhere. Somewhere
he's been and has to be again.
Always, there are those that flow,
that just know the rhythm. Here
the flow changes, rearranges
itself without notice. I have to
ask, how does anyone know
what time it is here?

Bill Bayer

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