The man sleeping in the diner’s back booth
will not care  if your mother suffers  from
plantar diabetic neuropathy or that your
children read **** and steal *****.  

No,  trivial matters will be of no worry
to him because he ****** himself while
dormant and leaving  without  others
knowing will be of primary concern.

It is five-thirty a.m.
I step outside for
the newspaper,

not four feet away
a raccoon sits on
its haunches like

a paunchy Buddha,
smiling as only liars
and sick animals

can; I toss a half
eaten piece of bacon
between  its  legs, pick

up the paper,
back away,
away.

Entangled in plastic
and  fishing line
eyes pecked by
crows; a new
America.

Atop a fresh
fall of snow

a blood red
cardinal

awaits
spring.

I search for the best lay of the land
between hillsides & beyond
concrete

where gravel roads wander
toward birdsong and gut
laughter with

few  fence posts
and sleep filled
nights.

I know she does not dream of me
nor should she;   there are so
many beautiful things other
than whiskey *****.

There are  fingerprints burned
into these kilns, leather hands
once held  waists of women
with wide hips who gave
birth to children

with gaunt  faces;  now, the bricks
lay across America’s streets
forgotten.