A child quietly screaming, veins pulse towards
a motherly shadow.
Bruised face, red-purple,
like the discolored arms and
veins of heroin addicts from countless years before and
to come. The child stares my way, an
innocent, isolated alien
abandoned three planets from the sun.
Token thoughts of the saddest kind were given to
the juvenile moped riders, the helmetless
children of pavement and cement. A crescent
raceway designated for the speed and superegos of
calloused emotions, the hard-headed
drivers of remote-controlled cars and baby whispers.
I walk past normal spectacles of any day.
A confusion jamboree
tornadoed among the weak, dedicated, and
In the marketplace,
in the produce and deli sections,
the dog of consumers’ souls waits at the end of a rusted chain.
A slobbering guardian. Jaw lock.
or nap under discretion’s shadow.
In line first, but forgot to grab
a ticket with a number printed on it.
“The line starts back here,” some guy says.