Crossroads at the Crosswalk
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.