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An Oak Cliff Tale 

Possibly the wail of a drunken Banshee
or that of a desperate man with  
a freshly broken heart, not sure,
but it was definitely anger
loud  defiant anger, thunderous.
Not just everyday fuck this or fuck that anger, but
balls to the wall hating the lord God, vibrating
tonsils, punching holes in the dark
anger.

And so close.

Out the window on the street some
plaintiff screamer cursing fate
or a woman, or his own failings.

These vocal bullets could
have shattered the window, drawn
to the lamplight
striking my pregnant wife.
(I fear)
Or come like chaotic bricks,
smashing the world falling 
defiant to the floor.

It could have been me
fourteen years ago, spitting into the sky
demanding more of life, and love,
little realizing that the worst
was yet to come.

But this voice is foreign
possibly Spanish or indiscernibly intoxicated,
not that of an existentialist being let down
easy, possibly that of a killer, an executioner
human in form only. Challenging life.

While we that are aging, fragile
with responsibility and very small fears,
lamplight mannequins, poised 
reading poetry in bed,
simply do not answer.

There is no answer.

He screams outside the window.
He screams on the street corner.
He screams down the block.
He screams until barely audible then gone.

Only one in a series of unknowable 
passing tragedies, 
late, on an Oak Cliff Monday
while cats roam the streets
and wives are asleep.

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