A man on his way to work, striped polo, sipping coffee,
cuts across the newborn grass, re-seeded and innocent,
from one sidewalk to another sidewalk, to save seconds.
He doesn't know why he feels so good, failing
to filter the sunrise and sparrow song and new green
of things through himself, instead crushing it with leather
soles. The strings of his soul are sharp, squeeling
like the yellowed construction machine nearby, grinding
metal into earth. He smiles at its howl, not hearing the crows
in the branches above him crying now for the worms.
This man, would he listen if I told him he is a murderer
of himself?
Author notes
getting there
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