great pitch and moment

Summer of diorama city,

tenantless

dusty

Man at a pizza counter

as full of hot oil as the fryer

says this place shorts him

Wants what’s his all the more

for choices unchosen,

cardboard for floor

Get his damned slice of life

these things are tally marks, not names:

Flags throwing haymakers

at a salt flat sky

Streets pachinkoed by people and

siren heat

Promises we are at

the beginning or the end

of the procession

Be it funeral or parade

Miles Cayman