A twig falls
into an oblivious backpack
and leaves a tic.

A package of cigarettes flies out the window of
a five-story building and smacks on the sidewalk,
like spit on some skin.

A scenario:
young, misbehaving child cools off in
a peaceful space, a bean-bag chair.
A premonition.
He’s twenty and wondering, where’s the bean bag now?

Two days of dryly coughing,
so much glowering,
he’s biking in the wrong direction.

“You’re idealistic,” he says to nobody.
He looks out the window, unsatisfied.
He eats a 3-bean salad, unsatisfied.
He adds bacon but it doesn’t matter
because I think he would rather die.