The Broken Beaten Lost

The previous night
fades like chimney smoke
in the cold morning
and the fat birds
have their fill
of sanguine worms
and all the best parts
of the dawn.

I see the city out my window
past the bridges and the dying trees
and broken streets we somehow
all limp home on.

The rain does not delay
but falls on me relentless.
The thunder like a mad hound
in the clouds.

The wind bends flower stems
and sweeps over all the grass
between the parking lots
where those with nowhere
left to go all catch their breath.

Metal shutters fall over
store front windows
like the eyelids
of a teenage girl
painted dark
to look the part
of someone stronger.

Car doors close
like hatchets chopping wood
and helicopters
hover over hospitals
bringing home
the broken beaten lost.