crescent moon waxing buttery over a loaf of bread
lonely, scattered in the parking lot
i ask the sky,
where do pigeons go at night.
five dollars buys me enough to sleep,
maybe even get a laugh in --
i feel thirsty for myself,
to know the me that knows
how to be fun.

in the line we stand
six feet apart, like
good little children
hugging our knot,
begrudgingly.
two girls with
eight braids between them
play-fight, step out of line.
the younger swinging punches
silly-slow like
underwater, giggly
never landing blows, like
girls do, too amused to
do harm.