This city wasn’t my idea.
Bad air loiters at the 7-11
before it cruises elsewhere
on a greased slide of marsh muck.
A rat stopped tonight
in the middle of the street,
glaring at me with a streetlight in its eye.
It crawled away like a first time offender
jumping bail. Most murder victims
know their killers. Police
guard the supermarket,
firemen work part time
installing a aluminum siding,
the hospital cardiac rescue truck
relaxes below the speed limit
on the road to a dozen donuts.
La cucaracha miraculously escapes
a direct blow from my fist.
By the time the pigeons wake up
even the mafia is asleep.
On the outskirts of the city
a sign has appeared introducing
the new mayor & council president.
© Robert Rixon
Murder Is My Music