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In the police neglected,
encircled neighborhood,
people showcase their lives
with their front yards,
empty tables,
trampolines, burning barrels,
and a car surplus that
always returns,
coin trays full of
pennies, corroded and forgotten.

Cell phones short circuit
the hollered gossip
that baubles from porch
to porch, littered
with the wrinkled ashes
of yesterday.

Slightly slower
goes Schröd’er’s cat
over backyard fences,
given a new half-life.
After three days,
he is born again
in a black bag.
Now, it’s week three,
and he is still
performing his rounds.
His cries for attention
less vocal, but swarming.

a young boy, dirty,
shoeless, traces
around the circle
while holding back his siblings
and father on bicycles.
Untethered by the wheels,
he has no idea, yet,
that nonchalance is his means
of storing momentum. And one day,
the circle will lose its fatal attraction
and his line of prints
will bear him
to freedom.