Fuck Them newly scrawled across
the side of the ancient brick shell
of an abandoned bar, pigeon shit
for punctuation.

Suddenly a layer peels away,
and clear unhappiness wafts up
to hit you upside the head.
Fuck who? Fuck them.

You’re limping to the store
for milk, $3.99 from the Iraqi guy
with the sick kid, tiny with a large head,
puffed-up limbs loaded with some sullen
permanent poison. But his father
has a penny to hand back to you.

The limp, a bite from an angry dog
you barked back at. Its owner
let it loose. Turn that frown upside
down. The city’s got it in for you,
parking tickets collecting on a flat tire.

Sometimes you just have to laugh
and sometimes you don’t. Two years
without a job. Yet the sun still angles
pure shadow across September dawn.

And when you step into the light,
gallon jug in hand, you feel the surge
of a prophet or minor god. Plastic, cold
and sweating, a pure thing in your hand.

A tired smile from the owner—
and look at his daily pile of shit.
You’re down to one key on your ring
but that key’s squeezed in your other fist

like a firm promise. Fuck them.
You shout. The pigeons scatter, settle—
all you can hope for, you
who have been bitten.