Crossings

                           I

Walked past an unconscious male
sprawled heavy on the clinic floor,
listless legs lying in the doorway
where his surprised knees had failed.
Plaid shirt ripped from his chest,
buttons scattered across the tiles,
wax face lumped around a mask:
a broken doll in cardiac arrest.
Middle-aged, except maybe not so
middleage after this cut-short day.
Medics shocked him, pumped him up,
but not to flesh that looked like life.
Raggedy Andy without the red yarn,
or a painted smile, or button eyes.


                            II

I yawn and wait behind the wheel;
watching immigrants cross mid-block
for marrow meals from market trash:
steel seared curses artfully slipped.
Christ, can’t they cross at the lights!
Seagulls menace a murder of crows
dredging the curb for burgers and fries.
Dodging wheels, they feed from fate.
And so for the gull who lags until last;
I watch the Express roll over his back.
Vainly commanding enfeebled wings,
cocks up his head, cries open his beak;
silently screams surprise at death,
learning too late that he was alive.




March, 2014



Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s