hill of the crow

automobiles travel on dirty nights,
thread through curves 
 
on whitewall tires
 
in a glove box, road maps and whiskey
conceal a .38 handgun
 
coal miners 1:00 before twelve o’clock
in hidden seams, below
 
mud and earth
 
mutinous winds take over moored ships
in a secluded harbor
 
carry hurricane lanterns, one if by land
two if by sea
 
to find their way
 
dog packs look for alley cats
one beats a can lid 
 
with a stick, this old man
 
in a shade drawn house, lovers,
in another, pot and pans
 
fly through the air with trapeze skill
 
small children in bed dreaming of sandboxes,
sand by a creek bed, footless
 
footless gravel kicked as if by a stubborn mule,
chrome dodge grill to reach a summit
 
wipers tasting the morning dew,
inside, he, a bit nervous
 
beads of sweat rolling on his forehead,
but the wipers can’t touch
 
he says to himself, “has to be done”
 
sun pulling up a shade on a dirty night,
shadows slide under back alley
 
door entrances
 
in a greasy spoon, ‘c’ note slides under
a palm
 
turns the cheek
 
gravel and dust whitewash cool air 
as car brakes carve out a name
 
a .38 revolver gets a once over.
man in a black suit
black hat
 
sunglasses, awaits
 
in backyards, children play with
imaginary guns
 
engine sound approaching, 2 shots,
awakes a sleepless morning
 
windshield cracks like skate ice,
off a ravine it tumbles over,
over
 
inside, himself, his past
 
on a stone, a lone black feathered crow,
cawing
cawing.
 
 
Copyright © 05/08/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®
Image
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