Decrepit windows do not look down, only wet clothes hung in balconies. Toothpaste foams at woman’s mouth with her girl’s eyes awash with sleep.
Poems walk past the chicken cages, on their delicate stomach upset with thoughts of chicken necks to wring later in the day for someone’s table.
The chicken do not walk like poems, crying foul of the human condition. They cross no streets but find themselves poems in stomachs.