Outside the gates of the locked sturdy houses,
the cops are running wild with their scorpion’s tails,
a stinging, shrieking, blue-line, blurred,
Their engines fueled and racing,
A siezure of flashing pain spinning in the general direction of anywhere
to a place where something went wrong… or not
There is a predator
his right ear to the ground.
An alarm clock
ticking in his left ear.
The gears are winding the stem too tightly.
He lunges with hands spread flat;
his stubby fingers are spiked and stiff,
suddenly his hands grab into two fat fists,
his knuckles rise into ten hard stones.
The powder. The smoke. The flash.
Cold metal warmed by his scorched skin
The moon is hidden and the stars go dark,
rage is seeping along the ground.
He stole a measure of God’s own heart.
Linda Morgan Smith is a visual artist in New Orleans, Louisiana.