This is a pigture, sworn in by the spiral of its snout.
Behind you: a plaid of traffic and windows,
red bars and graphite weather,
a city reduced to chorus lines.

Your ear is a pink sail catching side-winds.
Your eye is a brass button, fastened to now.
Between whisker and outline—
electric scribbles argue the shape of joy.

Hypothesis: the grid wants order.
Counter-hypothesis: you prefer groove.
Synthesis: we syncopate the rectangles,
rename them measures, call it sty-jazz.

You point the nose like a compass to the warmest trouble;
streets tilt, rules shrug,
and every crosshatch becomes a doorway
for a bright, ridiculous yes.