Persimmon orange washes blankly across my waking field of vision to where it weakens and dissolves in turquoise. A white tower on a nearby rooftop blinks out time in tomato red, the tiny light on top sticking up for development amidst all this passive sky, tomato, tomato . . . .
Below, long rows of portable toilets like green teeth stand in well-ordered service within the snaking crowd control barrier. “Celebrate St. Louis” brings “quality entertainment” through “excellent corporate sponsorship.” Bud and hot dogs leave their scent on the paper and plastic that dances listlessly about the empty streets in remembrance of this.
Bums, gloved and hooded in the stifling damp heat of the park, seem always to be sleeping. Did they wake to the amplified beat? Did it invade their dreams with the necessity, the predestination of corporate recreation?
Now the sun shines brightly on a world of still-drowsy people, bums and marketers alike. Only the birds have been industrious here in the waking hours. They cross the sky with energy and purpose, perhaps joy.