Someone Was Shot Here, Probably (NaPoWriMo 7/30)

In a burned out city
that whispered from its ashes
willful forgetting would only salt
that richness; turn the fertilizing of it to Death.

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Cars test brakes for dogs,
their walkers retracting leashes
a measured three paces ahead;
heaving their groomed chests
nosy and otherwise noiseless
vacantly glancing into dingy windows
hawking razors, the lottery,  Newports.

They move like they belong
their walkers recording these mornings
like a safari, art, and upward mobility.

If there is any memory
in the pads of their paws
the relaxed sway of their jowls
all rhythm and still carefree
my body is not in it.

I am No Body the news knows.
I am the danger on the fourth pace, though.

I am the other end of ancestors
who never left or found fortunes
though the hub of trains and river
whispered otherwise.

In a burned out city
that whispered from its ashes
willful forgetting would only salt
that richness; turn the fertilizing of it to Death.

Or I am the descendant of passive slaves
conspiring to blend easily into the land
be temporary tool and trade I was told I was;
I give myself to it.

Become ash because shipping to the morgue
for lack of burial money is still Money.
Rental casket restocked; funerary chapel
dusted with Pledge for the next sacrifice, Money.

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