by M.P. Powers
A beggar with dreads and bloodshot eyes
except for a fang
raps on the window of my truck. "Goz any
change?" I look in the console, shake my head
no... He trudges
off. The light changes. Miami is a different
for everyone, at any given time, but today,
on NW 27th
Avenue, the beast seems only evil.
I see it in the three
grimacing faces at the bus stop,
stone," and the heavy stormclouds.
There's an old
mural pealing, and a place where nothing
grows: the one-story motel
the railway, a soulless
agglomeration of no-frills
overlooking a glorious
empty parking lot.
As I pull near, I imagine
some of the dark secrets
know. Make up a few scenerios of my own.
And then a door opens. A skinny white
creeps out, barefooted, hair a mess, purse slung
over her shoulder. She limps
up the sidewalk,
working, eyes, wild. A man howls
from up on the trestle.
A train shears by. 11 a.m.
on a Monday, and the naked
Birds of agony,
softly in its soiled wingless