Anthony Liccione

Walking in the middle of the city center
purging through directionless pigeons
they shuffle to the side giving a pathway,
cooing to the awkward of her moves—
as the sun seeps through her umbrella
into the hot shade of melting mascara,
with flowers in her hand, freely dropping
their pedals to the shiny sidewalk.

The crowd at the bus stop looks at the
unusual forecast of a remote face,
as she tells the people that it will storm,
as we are dirtiest of souls in need
of cleansing—
some grin and laugh, shuffling spit
to the other side of their mouth, outrageous
they go looking for their number bus—
humanizing her as another deranged.

As she disrobes dropping each piece
of clothing delicately to the shiny sidewalk,
down to her pubic hairs and teardrop breasts
cigarettes bounce and burn another session,
bystanders have stopped talking obtrusively—
pulling a gun from her handbag and she shoots
a man drops to his knees pleading her to stop,
feeble as the naked roses torn with thorns.

Pigeons scatter and fly, the glitter of sidewalks
that lead to a destination.

Someone is dying against a rusty U-turn sign
where a world has created to reciprocate chaos
as a boomerang sin makes its turn on returns—
there is desire to die by a Yield sign or Stop
in the madness of history repeating itself.