Air Jordans of dialect hang
misunderstood low on the shit-eating powerline
sagged enough to almost rub
the roof of the beating-the-light U-Haul.
I’ve spent so much time this month
wondering if the grinding in my brakes
has become worse or if I’m just noticing things more,
the air in my work elevator not just smelling
of the basement cafe’s onions, but smelling
of the basement cafe’s red onions. The music
always loud. The rubbery auricle yawns awake
to localize the kind-of warbling being sledged
somewhere south of at least the dishwasher,
thread count rumble strips at the fingerprints
sliding to throw the sheets off to go investigate
the tin tumbleweed rolling liberal across late-night laminate.
Lately northbound on the rattler of the JFX
I can hear them counting minutes at City Jail,
wind-dried seconds ticking up,
ticking out useless as dodging thunder,
channeling mercy through bail-banned meditation,
each tally a plea hammering flat
the metallic cud of penance, strike after strike
making the line-sitting blackbirds flexed as a voyeur.