Beside the 1925 fire hydrant
at the corner of Greenwich and 12th, I-
the sun from the southeast
already so warm it could heat bathwater.
A motorscooter putters by.
On the scaffold of a fire escape, way up,
men, specks of red and blue check
carefully point the brick without haste.
Trees of the old but alert houses
heel into their shutters.
On the doorstep a cat is already asleep.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem