A dead bird is caught in the grill
of a new car. The blood stands out
so clearly against the white.
They take turns rolling dice
in cardboard boxes, and allow
the odds to choose who eats tonight.
The people waiting for the bus,
in the cold, are the scarecrows
of the neighborhood.
The watchmen by default of where
they are. Some smoke and see
the branches shake above them,
and the others can’t afford to go too far.
I lay out all their pasts in perfect nightmares,
where their girlfriend’s fathers chase them
through the streets. They lose them
in an ally filled with broken lace,
and while the breathing starts to slow
she feels his bleeding face.

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