Walking down a dirty side walk
An arms length from traffic
An old man pushes a cart
Full of aluminum cans and shit
Strolling past him not glancing back
I turn into Norm’s coffee shop
Two large coffees please
Black
To go of course
Leave a nice tip
This is not a poem
The boredom of murder over and over
Like childhood dreams and stories
Like promises of futurse
The conversation drifts
Into cracks we start
The walls are colorstained motel rooms
He adds another bullet and drives away
We turn the channel
Goodnight
Look at all the little children
Dancing withoutt clouded vision
Happy just to run around
Not thinking of the world around them
This is not a poem