guts

often the sky is blue
right now it is morning, the color of an american yorkshire pig
a man wearing highlighter yellow is suspended from two ropes affixed to the 15th story
of 809 broadway totem of matte black metal and glass

he leans back over the edge 
he has a bucket and a telescopic squeegee at hand, an airpod in his right ear
he laughs 
he moves with the wind

each panel is reborn in his name
the sun shines brighter
sum of days, uninterrupted vista 
somewhere, a car alarm

guts

pale daffodils bloom
i see them from a taxi of the same denomination
on a hill in riverside park
a person sleeping wrapped in a yellow blanket

southbound traffic snakes apace
12th avenue what a weird west side vein 
when you approach from 59th you have no choice
you must go under the cover of henry hudson

and we know what happened to him, it is the same for everyone
cold air in lungs
the difference is daffodils are hardy, poised to survive an early spring frost
windows down or no windows at all

lenticular clouds 7:59pm 3% 

blue gatorade sky 
i drink the giant synthetic drink
clouds that look like spaceships
i execute a google search

a girl posts a video of herself in the passenger seat of a waymo
two golden retrievers in back
the dogs sit butt to butt, each snout out a window
they smell many different worlds

can the internet crack a mind open like an egg
the driver’s seat of a waymo has to stay empty
space for nothing
hungry for nothing
my phone is dying

Melissa Hohl is a librarian living in New York City with her family. Her poems have appeared in ZYZZYVA, Bone Bouquet, Pinch, and Armstrong Literary (now The Queens Review).