The alligators shovel until the terrible breeze
lifts the golden coasters off the table that is stretching
around our necks like a dangerous neighborhood
which howls with the cacophony of the drive-by oceans
with bullets made of diamonds and ice.
We all talk and none listens as the bridge falls
and breaks my leg into thousands of pieces,
but we end on time and there is sweet chocolate
in the break room with saggy palm trees
and silly antique phones that plead
for a sense of community.