Not In Color

Music drifts around, curvy notes left hanging in the air
by the doorway. They cover the faces of imaginary
people who bustle by and whisper hello, goodbye.
Their presence rivals window dressings and losses. Sounds,
very much like slow jazz, played on a piano
as trumpets or sousaphones nudge their way in.
Subjects do not exist and abstraction does not work
here. Here, where the world is made of words,
some in color but most, black and white.
Temperature drops degree by degree but I stand there,
watching the men load the letters into a truck
and while sweating in the gray air.
Then a pack of dogs runs by howling and tracking
language, startling me from my sights. Bark. Run.