A misfire of justice.

The worry of something hard and smooth.

The tactile test of opal along the fingers.

The soft parts of the flower or the hard stature of a man imposed.

In the terrarium of the inner city the lid cracked and not enough

peanut butter to spread the length of four children.

Perhaps a therapy of furniture, two minutes on the couch

in between shifts, an entire living room set $59 a week.

Cigarette butts and a used condom on the sidewalk.

Tobacco stuffed in paper and sold in cartons.

Three days wages at a time.

Here azaleas bloom only in books and a plastic crocodile

in the back of an abandoned car.

Wheels and tires too far gone to tempt petty crimes.

On a street corner a blue light warns of a higher power.

The fact at any moment a man’s hand can reach down and grab you.

The eco-system remains artificially out of balance.

Paint comes unstuck from the walls.

The sun splatters white across a window sill

and nails hum under the strain of it all.

The center of the stoop gives way until from the edge

of the road it resembles a smile.