there is an infinite etching of sorrow in a perfectly prepared sunny side up egg sitting on a plate with golden brown hashbrowns and too many slices of bacon;

this golden sea
congealed futures
decided
long before
the machinery
took all
hopes of pecking gravel
from
unformed wings

there was a man who did topiary around the neighborhood in the middle of the night leaving fantastical beasts peeking over iron wrought gates;

it was the heart
of the ghetto
the man
was looking for
aluminum cans
leaving the trash
strewn over
colorful chalk drawings
on the
dirty sidewalk
of childhood
trauma

this was intended as a celebration of something but quickly lost its thread and became something else.