A Hummingbird in the Tenderloin

How about that?
And so far up -
In the weave of foliage of the
Tree by the window above the
Corner where homeless,
Crack heads and hookers hang
Out, waiting for their checks, being
Forsaken together –

A small object bracketed by a blur
Of wings
Zips and stills,
Hoping for a blossom
Into which to insert the soft sweet hook
Of its beak
As for nectar
Among the waving hands.

But it is too late for nectar
In these neighborhoods.
It vanishes -
A humming memory,
Briefly interrupted by sirens.