Locals

Shifty magician with a rotting wooden leg
clicking his tongue into the sun
wounded, howling pigeon wails
from behind dark glasses, leans on a third foot
When the air gets dark
We, then the plug gets unplugged
--tanned blue breeze trots down from the mountain
--slides through serene alleys
--turns all the hot bullets and rusted crap in the ghettos
   into hollow ice cubes and chilly cages
The greasy pock-marked lion
flicking his palm at passing traffic
curls into his torn shirt and fades
into the background
All the garbage laid out in the gutter
burrows deep into the ground
huddles together for warmth
in the bowels of sixteen towns
united for the night, untied down
near the Earth's soupy core
Do you know how much garbage hates the cold?
Alone in the alleys
breathing smoke into spiders' silky homes
I chitter and tuck my cool hands under my legs
waiting for the sun
To garishly rise over the roof
and break through my window