Down on Franklin Avenue where the brothers jive,
night snuck up on everyone without anyone noticing.
A severed head stuck in a paper bag waited
secretly in some vacant lot: a bad fortune
stashed in a crusty fortune cookie shell.
I was waiting for the turkey sandwich
you made me eat to fall on top of my buzz
like an anvil on a coyote, and I was angry
as I’d been for minutes, but my anger
didn’t trail off into future minutes;
minutes are funny that way, and anger
is funny too.
The street will tire while we try
to walk home on this winter night;
my attrite heart will thump its sorry way
toward warmth, my apartment, and