Street Corners

The light shines on the hoods of cars in late day

The windshields popped and faded by sunlight.

Old news spreads through the air as small houses click closed,

Nowhere to go except up to the neighbor’s ears.

Small dogs let out yips as the sleeping sun puts to rest the overworked birds

Hungry cats purring in appreciation.

But, the block is not silent, though the sun isn’t out.

it is boisterous and loud; filled with smoke and stout.

the street is wild when the moon arises,

blood on streets from skidded knees,

with hound dogs searching for discarded meat.

the streets are alive with oil tinted blood.

as if the skid marks on the road couldn’t show its misuse

the crumpled potato chip bag car wrecks should.

then,  slowly, the lights flick off.

leaving only those with no home to walk

back down the corner, to the dim lit bars to spend their nights

tired and lost.

The dew shines on newly planted grass

as a new day dawns, in the far off morn.

 

This poem is about: 
My country

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