"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.