Waiters on Shoreline
When I met Everyman on a shore, I called him a dirty word, stole his flatbottom, rowed into winter waters. He caught up with me by following the gatherings of crows. Together, again we prayed at the river’s edge. A delta formed in the clouds. Together we killed the song bird, called it Mercy as we ate it. From there it grows hard to relate exactly who killed whom. The sand speckled with white pebbles? The six children in black hoodies waiting the tables set there by the water? Tables that sat the dead.