Particular Words in a Specific Order

Mocking 
birds are prophets 
on Blake street. 
They stopped nesting 
when the trees got 
cut up, learned to 
avoid the skies 
above cement fingers 
coking out the horizon, 
stopped coming entirely 
when the sun baked 
their feet to char. 

They make 
city legislation.  
They predicted 
the bonds that 
would put up new greens, 
were creative-mind 
conscious, painted 
their feathers to 
match RiNo's  
new palette.  

Residents 
on Blake Street 
knew their days 
were counting down 
when mockingbirds 
moved back in, 
mimicking the 
richer birds' calls 
and keeping 
their tiny eyes 
glued to a crafts 
store, a winery, 
the caterpillars 
snacking on nubile 
leaves and swallowing 
old factories whole, 
the paint that caked 
dead folk’s walls, 
now oozing down  
the streets in some 
grim celebration of 
It’s over, the deplorables 
have finally left, as if 
they’re not still buried 
behind the run-down 
church that stands, 
crook-legged, 
next to an Art House. 

2019