when we crush him
his bones don't crunch
or make sound at all
he jerks though
sickly neck pops
impossible twist cracks that fold him
right over the line between poor and dead
his skin pushes down and laterally
snag pulled to the street
like the corner of our life landed on the loose skin
at his cheek and as his upper cradle of
ribs and long bones reaches the pavement
he makes the hungry-eyed look around that
runs the motions of hopeful begging but
knows that these paths go nowhere,
that he's in a room made of
music and well being but
none of it written for him.
he doesn't close his eyes when he dies, they
don't even stop looking
he's a quiet pile
the other house guards
will walk around

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