Meat wagons sing an ode in sardonics
passing a bus held briefly to regulate

the service. Jesus loves you, if you
believe in signage. High heels clack,

are slung off, taken in hand. A shawl
flicked around our lady’s shoulders

flutters. She speeds up by Londis
past friends pressed against shutters

huddled, from the cold, round a zoot
twosed then snuffed by a scuffed shoe.

This is the hour when a silver glimpse,
likely a phone, is a blade and a patch

of shade must be an assailant. A couple
on their second date claim a requisite

slow-dance in the space where restraint
cuts its eye at recklessness, their arms

charm necklaces warding off the thought
of these limbs round some other neck;

the night, years hence, when they’ll forget
how to want and need in the same breath.