useless art

outside of the
City of Hartford
Office of Human Relations
the lobby clock
is broken

so we treat the minutes
as distance - mark
the milestones,
do our time,
and then run like hell.

keys quickly click
into locks, footfalls glance
off brown marble,
carousel doors whisper
to a distant stop

leaving beads and blankets
and the sound of vacuum
cleaners
to cover our tracks

across leveled
land and gutted factories
perched on the banks
of the Connecticut River

storefronts spread across blocks
of buildings holding brick
and little else we like
to see

because when someone
gets shot
on Franklin Avenue,
Main Street just watches

for the spark
of the muzzle
and the glitter
of cop car lights
off wet asphalt,

and closes the blinds.