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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