nodding their heads to themselves
as they push wide shopping carts
past sweetbroom and snapdragon,
a kind of beauty, turning on its carousel,
not to be touched without impossible permissions
from the angels who escort them
wearing leather boots and speaking of Texas onions
as something to desire this warm afternoon.
Tattoos that show through rock'n'roll suicide t-shirts
and the shh of dragging shoes come alive
with a blast of thrash from a modified
pickup truck outside, and eyes connect,
ashamed almost that it is cool
to share for just a moment what is freedom,
what is life, for fear of slipping
down that hillside, with eyes no longer
ones to trust, but black inside.
