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

after a car accident

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