Broken Things in Sunlight

by Amy Soricelli

Wicked machinery; not big like tractors but smaller steely parts
sitting in back yards nearby woody swing sets dried-up pools.
She lived near a family who had chickens like pets they would battle in the middle of the night - call up to her window;
whistle like she was a hooker.
One long chicken sound.
She danced by the open window sometimes the radio music on low she would sway her hips;
look down on the broken machinery
crap she would think.  crap this is ugly.
Her friends had snow blowers lawn mowers garden people watching over their plants
the sun would shine its side-ways smile through their bumped-up cross their hearts hope to die
promises.
She climbed on top of anything bouncing car-lot playgrounds thinking she could fly to God straight up.
Truth stuck to her like fly paper.
Broken bicycle wheels on chains dead on her burned-down street corner
sooty lamp posts she keeps seeing in the shadow dance of 'cant sleep'.
She looks out her window straight down to the shopping carts tipped to the side;
pooling up rain water slippery through its bars.
Almost in the bright sun it could look like a statue or something rich.
She wants to pray to it.