Colds and Murder

I just found out that a friend of a friend has been murdered - shot in the back of the head while she slept. I didn't know her; never met her, yet her death bothers me. Maybe it's because I've been sick since Christmas and my spirit hasn't recovered as well as my body. Maybe it's because she was younger than me. Or maybe it's simply because she didn't have the chance to fight back.

This poem has nothing to do with a young woman's unfortunate death. But, somehow, it made me think of her.


Six People near Pittsburgh

I
Peach carnations painted on cheap seat covers stretch
across Fords rusted on Rt. 30. Vandals have ripped
the white Grateful Dead T-shirt floating from the door.
Bears dance across the sun visor, rainbow colors and jewels
protecting magazines and water bottles
from the August sunlight.

Activists strut mismatched cardboard,
turbulent leftovers robed in polyester and cologne.
They stood on the sidewalk as I drove by
wondering if that tall thin man worked,
wondering if the two-year old riding
that teenager’s shoulders had a father,
wondering what they were fighting for.
They walked in circles, cigarettes
bouncing onto grass and matches
stuck between mailboxes and curbs.

They wore t-shirts that said WWJD?
and held signs painted in orange and green. I read them:
Damnation.
Raise hell.
Set fires.

II
I was taught to leave the light on,
to let birds perch on my windowsill,
to let fireflies and moths in
to land on my clothes and pillows,
wings of the finch like flowers
open to experience.

The birds eye me while AAA loads the old Ford
onto its cold heavy back.

Dead beetles still cling to the windshield
to be consumed by flame.