Her bicycle chain drags kinetically against the
asphalt. Her friends do not wait.
I am an observer on my front terrace.
My poetic studies are constantly in interruption
and inspiration by the shirtless black alpha-male yelling
What the-
What the-
What hell do I care that you were throwing rocks
at your racist neighbor’s house and he
called the cops?
The young girl fixed her chain and
rides over the bridge
over the ditch
with her friends.
I go inside at the 8:36 dusk
and hear children running across my
wooden porch,
but I let them because
it means more than them
than I.
