Crows don't rile the local pigeons,
'tis raptors who raise their ire
among rain-beaten avenues
littered with busted lives
downed on the poppy dope
that's got them wan and cornered.
Church bells don't rattle heathens
where Jehova Watchtowers fade by bus stop posts.
Yard-sale signs on power poles point the way
to exercise machines and National Geographic
magazines while Wanda's corner thaws.
The law has bumped her down to Tacoma.
We're both victims of yesterday's token sweep.
A folly of sirens suddenly punctures
the Emerald City
as concrete hips and steel bones
crack under blistered clouds. Blasted panes
shred pedestrians while those at home
vaporize behind irrelevant doors.
The wind is done
with these yellow dresses, boys.
Let's don them and sit among
the humble dandelions;
behold common sparrows in the weeds
as creatures wonderful and rare.
It's our last chance, oh, brothers!
Let's sing! Let's dance!
in these yolk-yellow dresses
'til we fry.