smooth from weathering
and tiny sized hands,
that prick and prod the edges
on their way home from school.
Clad in tights and cardigans,
dress pants with rolled cuffs to accommodate growth spurts
and socks that hug the body of their knees.
Fathers and mothers waiting at home
watching the window where the stadium looms,
on guard against predators
who prey on boys running to be men,
chasing dreams down a field toward their goals.
Manchester on an overcast day is a city of facades,
where buildings wear masks of the old,
the historical,
the memorably forgotten,
and cover the hidden urbanization beneath them.
Stores shelve themselves between each other along the street
as customers trail their fingers along the overcrowded stock
and choose between them.
They stop and ponder window dressings
never having to choose between old and new,
ideally situated in a present that allows them to be in both
presences.
Manchester on an overcast day is an apparition
of industrial smoke,
billowing from long ago closed chimneys
that gave life.
Reproduced through textiles and metal
and corn exchanges,
where the people would stand at yell as the numbers scrolled past
one
after
another
predicting the future.
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