The walker never notices

a robin’s beak’s the color

of its breast

until he walks close enough

to see if it’s still alive

 

He’s never bent close enough

to notice that the twisted lips

of a man crunched mid section

on a street of blossoming trees

in such an unlively way

fades to a funny blue

and is not as sharp and striking

as a robin’s on the road

 

With this afternoon’s gothic

stuck in his eye and soul,

the walker keeps to the sidewalk,

hurries home, pulls the shade,

checks his lips for a purple cast

in the mirror in the hall

 

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