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pained like a vulgar jutting bone we
head down to the lights and the medians
where the traffic swings and clots
having the shakes bad and hating the aching and this
time you seem more straight with a firearm
and less a stranger minding
the windows and the damned
cashier since there is no need to think on
fault and cause and portion and mistreatment
just dealing with coming down and the hot wired
antidote that everything will again be
as inanimate and unrecognizable as a neon sign
or an iron sidewalk grating or a million thoughtless
buildings and steady hands and just enough bullets to get off so
we head on inside having already considered
the string of bells tethered to the front door frame