Buried by the Shed

Beyond the shed and past the troughs, I shed  
dry tears synonymous with voiceless coughs—  
the music of the operating room,
where maggots swelter, born buried in work.
  
The past exhales as though a sour simoom
that scatters scabs of unrequited love
that choke as ashes clog the live windpipe,
or fast monsoon that floods the living-parched. 

Report of an Arrest

The state police report:
At one o'clock last night,  
a liquid gold sedan—
"a Mazda 3," they write, 
"an import," driven by
a man of black-and-white
complexion, suit and tie—
had come to park beside
a purple Firebird, right 
behind the fire temple,
on Ash across from Crown. 
And not that far from stairs,
and couple hydrants there.
Police became alarmed
at once because they saw
a sickly bandaged arm  
emerging from the car,
and wave—as if a star.
"Do not report," upset,
he said, "my life, oh please,
as though the world at large
considers me a threat!"
Arrested by police
right there and then, his charge:
Disturbing of the peace!