Poem By Ayn Timmerman

In Calder's city
you test yourself by
parallel parking on Lyon Hill,
which bisects the old homes
of the lumber barons,
three blocks from
a less gilded 'hood,
and steel beams
stab the sky on Medical Hill
where someday they will cure cancer
based on the tissues
of white lab rats,
while out on the sidewalk
people pass by to their places,
looking to the right and the left
but never right at you,
so they can complete their daily circle
on the surprisingly clean streets,
free of 99.9% of homelessness
so close to City Hall,
where the flags are
at half mast
because in the West Side
someone shot a cop,
and the plaza is empty,
swept clean,
awaiting the next festival
that is to take place
in Calder's City.

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