The thousands of cigarette butts are making me wonder
where all the charred lungs are now.
Maybe the same hands
attached to the arms

attached to the ribs
which encase the lungs
are flicking another **** out the window right now--
sparks sizzling and hopping across the concrete.

My heart frowns inside my chest.
But it’s a different sadness then when I see
the headless raccoon
or the dead deer with its head swung way back.

I shudder when I see a styrofoam box
propped up with an untrustworthy smile on its lid.
Like it’s not going to turn to dust anytime soon
but the greasy chinese takeout inside might.

You can also never trust
the side of the road fire hydrant wearing a pink robe.
My sister just broke up with a boy because he threw
a straw out the window.