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