Sloan's Pathos
No one sees the darkening sky at six o’clock winter
above the El, blue not-machine and bluer applique
of cloud. Correction: we do.
They do not, those
fleshy smudges at the bottom of the canvas whom we imagine
human and hurrying home to supper, glancing up at windows
yellowed against that familiar cusp of coming dark
bound to catch them, us.
