CHICKEN BONES

We park among unexplained chicken bones,
stripped clean and gleaming under the lot lights diffused in daybreak,
then pass the mainstreamed man barking at the sidewalk tree heralding in the work day with his demented reveille.

The elevator transcends us to a symphonic illusion
of amicable ambiance and purposeful production
as we slide into characterization
like method actors on a high stage
blind to the fourth curtain.

On another level emerges the man in black silk
unsullied from protected parking.

The symphony sharpens then flattens
as he flings words as weaponry,
evoking tremors from remembered rages.

He is the outlander creating shadows,
surrounded with heavy curtains of his own design,
where howling men and discarded chicken bones
inhabit an unfathomable universe.

Caught between worlds
we surrender to one
so we can afford to park
in the other.