mobile homes and phones

a shattered boombox

patched with bandaids,

and a keyboard missing

the escape key,

are crammed against the wire

of a stolen shopping cart.

the skeleton

of a baby stroller,

a deflated red balloon

hanging from a string,

eight crayons

in a marlboro box:

three reds two blacks

two blues and a gray.

the guy with haunted eyes

and nice shoes

crouches beside the cart

mumbling insanities

into a dead cell phone.

-captain. captain.

i told you.

there was a face on it.

the wall, the wall,

the wall of jericho.

she had a trumpet,

the virgin queen.

the bride behind

the veil. i told you.

it was a trumpet,

a long stemmed lily,

and the face on the wall

was red black and blue.

i saw it. so did you.

now it's here in the alley.

he strokes a spotted puppy

who wiggles and shakes

which jingles a set of

army dog tags on his collar.

holds the phone

in front of the pup

and says, tell him boy,

tell him. the dog barks.

a voice on the speaker:

john, are you there?

where are you son?

where are you?

the phone wasn't dead

after all.