The two are within a block of each other
near the northern edge of downtown.
Whether in cahoots or competition,
both stake a claim on their respective stages.
One, a conductor at her podium
who stands mid-intersection
directing nonexistent traffic.
What plays in her head is anyone’s guess.
The other, a fly fisherman
whipping shadow-cast figure eights
over the empty street; determined to find meaning
when there is always a catch before his release.
As cars arrive to nudge both experimental theaters,
a dance ensues to the tune of one long echoing symphonic honk.
Twirling, arms waving, she casts a spell
over her orchestra pit to silence the critics.
In turn, determined to nibble at traffic riffles,
he continues casting over the damned stream.
Being between two showpieces, I watch both while more cars arrive, increase dynamics of horn blow crescendos, then inch in, threatening these dominions with a thousand pounds of steel.
Reluctantly, but with impeccable choreography,
they relinquish their performance sweeps.
