waiting for bus #4 is magic

the biggest crow gobbled my right eye up.

left, crying and winking

away the abandoned pair of bright orange socks

bread crumb trailed right to Radio Shack.

*

I’m not sure what a ukulele has to do with any of this

but she has one for what it’s worth.

any moment the twink-twinkle plucking will Red Dwarf every little star.

*

she assumes the position: Twink. Twinkle.

shrunken guitar stuffed sick with pineapple,

coconut clobbered singing hole.

Twink. Twinkle. Twink.

*

thick calves and moustache pedal four seats of invisibles

to their place at this apocalypse.

he stops and marbles a grin,

then rings his bell.

Ring-Twink. Twinkle-ring.

*

It’s time to abandon this body.

*

Too-Tall Stick Indian brings everything but the ukulele to a halt.

he needs directions, and says they should arrive

directly from the road.

*

I’m as ghostly as the pedicab’s passengers.

Stick Indian will take nothing from me.

*

Still, his road wager pays:

a visible made brave by his backpack

waves all three of his dimensions:

“Over here, brother.”

He walks the Too-Tall instead of pointing.

*

Ring pedals away.

Twink twinkle.

*

air brakes and rotten eggs launch the crow

and my missing eye

into the dangling donut hole of the bus driver.

*

his face reveals everything:

fuck. a ukulele.

not this Sunday.

*

that bus doesn’t even slow.

left, crying and winking

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