"Zap, zap," some ray-guns say to rag-color pigeons
        pecking cement, now dishwater-color smoke and ash.

        "Yardbird, yardbird," a short man shouts, with too many clothes on,
        slopping vodka, daylight, down his robot throat-hole.

        Walk/Don't Walk's the small haiku cross-lights implore.
        The dangling window washer, off-season aerialist,

        causes little storms each lift of the squeegee
        from his red, sudsy bucket. The board he sits on drifts.

        LABOR READY/SMOKER FRIENDLY signs insist and PAID TODAY/
        CHECKS CASHED HERE. Meantime, the sun shines

        on all these wrist watches. Who shot the pigeons?
        What is the proper way for a man to live?

        

Copyright © Aaron Anstett, 2005. All Rights Reserved.