I sat on the bench the night before, winking one eye and poking at stars as I breathed dust below the canopy. There had been a man earlier who’d tawdled by with headphones on demanding the sidewalk to take him to its leader. There’d been a woman earlier speaking to a poinsettia. That’s it, I thought, still moving the stars around with one eye closed and my forefinger directing, it’s the poinsettias that are brainwashing us, I think. They walk away, like five thousand little ants in a line. The sugar bowl was left open, and now their fat and happy little bugs. Their appendages move to separate key notes, one two three. All around in sneezy circles. Mandibles bend and crack. The man that passed by earlier, he hums to himself, forgets his place, and trips over a slightly risen edge of the sidewalk. Don’t step on a crack, break your mother’s back. Crack, back… Smack! He falls face first into the dirt, disbelieving as I breathe dust below the canopy. There’s an ulterior motive here. The poinsettia’s did it, with their death scarlet leaves and venomous insides. It resembles the star of Bethlehem, come all ye faithful sings as the laypeople walk on past. Jesus was born in March. An Aries. That’s a special thing. You wont believe your eyes, hundreds of lies, in the skies… the ones I rearrange like a lite-brite.
This happened when I sat on 
the bench the night before.
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