Blind machines
hustled
in the swirl of sullen fumes;
something scuttled
to a crevice
under the jinxed light.
More than this I cannot say:
a blade glittered,
one man fell,
another ran,
someone yelled.
No one claimed his broken form;
he had a three-day beard
and no wallet.
The cop’s angry light
beat upon the concrete;
across the haunted street
yesterday’s news
blew by in a wind
just passing through;
the all-night diner
was closed.
Copyright ©Peter Scott Cameron 2015