Still hot
from a point blank shot
to the chest and to the head
I’ve cornered
a few oblong houses
with green doors and
herringbone floors
blue couches and
load bearing slouches
a dying veneer
for broken winged birds
that die of CPR
stale air filling their
heaving lungs and
are whisked away
in a silk cloth
and an old shoe box.
They are on the market
with my cardboard casket
I may walk but
only through concrete walls
to haunt and to pontificate
on all questions of love and hate
while the birds rot
beside men and beef
and all the petty thieves.
Oblong houses and a shoe box
