Crossroads at the Crosswalk

May 1, 2018

I.
On one of those
dreary Autumn days,
rain collects in the asphalt.
 
These canals will soon freeze
split the ground beneath my feet
drop me into
 
nippy Hell.
I will meet Azazel–
he will be one of those
 
armadillo bugs.
He’ll uncoil and devour
me. I’ll become
 
food that feeds an oak.
It’ll feed until I am the tree –
arms spread
 
hairless in Winter, where Crows
perch, shoot the breeze
smoke Virginia Slims.
 
 
Harold wants me to quit.
They’ll ask if I want one
but my lungs creak as is.
 
II.
Now in my flesh trunks –
crows in the tree, above.
I pull the cigarette out
 
of my mouth, toss it
into a puddle with the rest
of the pack.
 
At the crosswalk
overrun by dandelions,
I look back:
 
a crow has swooped
down, picked up
the still warm cigarette
 
in its black beak, wisps
of smoke reflecting off
onyx eyes.


 

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