tattoos on both arms, shoulders wide,
shaved head with a scar
that scar was a jagged edged
piece of art
hung in the Gallery of Violence.

her mouth moved and it smelled of smoke
which tasted profane, her hair was clean
her dress was nice, in a rough way,
a piece of life,
living where few people Tread with Willing Hearts.

another stood on the corner, every one was rushing
to work in the early morning light,
her heels her legs, advertising near the job site,
dignity ignored,
stepping into the next contractors Pickup Truck that opened the door.

two hit and runs minutes apart after midnight
one younger was injured slightly
the other died from his unsightly injuries,
disregard for human life,
incidents related, no, they have caught and arrested one,
driving without care because of Where They Were, in Whalley

This just in, "Life Is In My Face",
could be anywhere,
but just down the road from my place,
all of this is too real,
how kind I rest, in the surreal?
When Life Is In My Face,
bending time, filling space,
raindrops like tears evaporate,
like the peace, like the tranquility, like the dignity, like the safety
of another city night, raining, raining
straining it seems, to get a rest,
from the beast that is easily aroused.