Most days we walk. The baby
picks up little precious things,
acorns, fallen leaves.
There is a dead bird on the sidewalk:
once it was a mockingbird, but
it does not say anything now.
Ants have eaten its eyes,
they seethe on it busilypacking away little parcels of flesh.
Next door Miss Dorothy
white haired and stooping
pecks her tentative way
behind her little dog.
At the end of the street,
across the road,
the middle school looms
crumbling red brick
and cardboard covered eyes.
Into its mouth
brown children go back and forth busily
it swelters and chews them, but
they get free lunch.
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