A warped kitchen chair.
Grease on the glass. Blinds bent.

What happens in the neighborhood
stays in my head for weeks.

I am a slave to greyhounds
leading ladies down the sidewalk,
men gesticulating from their porch
drunk on sunshine and hooch,
birds and squirrels fighting over seeds,
federal agents filling the cul-de-sac
for a single illegal immigrant,
sedans racing down the narrow vein
of asphalt trailing lines of smoke.

Shallow breaths. Nervous leans.
A broken clock. Even the moonlight burns.

Tick tock, all is bustling,
all is as it is, all is unwell
where I make it unwell.