Between impacted fur and asphalt black,
Until crow rooted the powdered bones,
The blood sparked from a catsup pack.
He lighted on the street and tweaked
His ruffled head, bent his hips and spine,
Scraped himself into a sleeping bag,
His long finger prodding a twine
Of meat. Cars in his lane made him hop
The curb, stall in the lawns. His eye clicks
The street, then back at work, a shadow pries
A shadow. Cars in the other lane didn’t whip:
His gear and reward: a tug, a rip, a swallow—
For a focused man, it’s just noise.
Some of Jared Pearce's poems have recently been or will soon be shared in Shot Glass, Lampeter Review, Rosebud, Sonic Boom, and Santa Clara Review. His first collection, The Annotated Murder of One, is due from Aubade Press later this year.
