Wings Headed South Poem by Eric Cockrell

mid-afternoon sleepy eyed,
late summer sun defying autumnal chill.
dogs pray silent prayers
that passing cars bow to.
and the hum of being vibrates
from somewhere undefined within...
counting canned food by threatened days,
cigarettes burn on slow crosses.
while still the grass turns brown
as if to hide in the shadow of dirt.
too early for a drink...
and black coffee demands you follow.
what made sense is now gibberish,
shadowy friends pull unseen triggers,
and exchange small talk at the funeral.
somewhere between sadness, anger, and an erection...
listening for the sound of wings headed south,
as if some implied redemption.
quietly smiling, tense, and hopeful!