Wave to Burning Homes, Stop and Stare by Eric Fershtman

The old man John, all gone dead and buried, and here me shouting the unanswered into mirrors, windows, sunglasses, puddles of fetid water. It’s not polite to leave a person like that, I shout. Not cool or forgivable. Still too much cartilaginous and fibrous selves to explain. Nothing left to me, all I do is shout.
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I come from
the edges of the property
dog-eared, odd

Usually these discarded
reasons
patrol separate rooms

the invoice explaining
she’s seen something
in the back of my car