Friday Evening, Along McDowell Street

Phoenix, where the streets don't connect and the dwellings seem
dropped from the sky,
Where the sidewalks all are curved, bearing numbers matched to
serve the logic of the grid,
I sit under an overpass, at the opening between the lanes, watching
The chaos they call cars roll by the pink, unwindowed strip club
And the Maserati dealer with the white stone columns.
The yellow grass of winter, bare branches, loose red leaves,
The smell of sandlewood and river film, the sound of mallards
and ball bearings,
The turquoise smoke atop the pink skies and orange mountains
Fades to red tail lights and the phosphorescent lanterns of
the skateboard park.

In the pearl cast, lamps like green ships rigging strobe
the strip mall, called
Fountain Plaza, after the small Greek ceramic gurgling
along its busy road, where
The palm trees in front of the Fry's are all of a different size.
Across the street, one can see an abandoned service station strung in
Christmas lights,
A drive-through chicken shack that's now a bank, and an outlet for
thread named Boca Bargoons.

No I cannot possibly explain
How strange this place remains...
My explanations fall to chaos,
The only road to truth.