By Slobodanka Strauss

 

ambition has left the streets

cruelty has taken a seat

benches curve from the sittings

a song at dawn from the mourning dove

the rooster calling the half living

 

in broken homes on a day of sun

roses erupting with desire

the slow passing of minutes

dragging grief on the pavement

chipped paint hanging from weathered wood.

 

Oh this miserable weakness

from cold jacket sleeves

on sunny frosty days

those who prefer the weak

who pluck thinning hair

 

expect silent from the hog

lying on an abandoned step

marauding armies of the night

with their might and right to boil it

in oil—for soup made from an old recipe.