Birdshot
Maroon sky sees day burn out.
Screeech!
Night.
Starling, the coin-flipping pawnshops daughter,
hums a street corner tune.
High heel daggers
etch concrete hearts.
Her coat, a red lilly
black boa trim
spider gauze stretched over a pink stem.
The throng of heads and bags,
shopping
shoulder
briefcase,
surge with purpose direction.
A 143 legged street all hunch, duck, jerk,
under a pistol echo.
A gun flatulates at speed's sound
in a back alley underground.
Crowded sidewalkers doubletake look around,
like a stuttering caterpillar.
Starling , unstartled , smacks bubbles she's chewing.
One leg a pillar grinding hearts in the ground;
the other supporting her lean against the wall.
She makes no move at all.
Cept' flippin' heads flippin' tails.
She smirks and knows;as a burned wind blows,
smelling of matches and metal;
she's going unnoticed tonight.
Consumers and consumed all pass her by.
Yet she smiles between bubble gum smacks
"There's one thing I know"
smacking, grinning, flipping,
"That back alley bullet stops one cock
keeping me awake with its stale crow.
Hi! How ya doin. My name's Kate."
Starling says, "Lookin for a date."
I glance at the cherub.
my mouth fires "nope".