Sidecar Psychic

"We've got to eat," the scant,
scuddly ghoul replied, scooping
a west-craven look into a
nightmare-on-asphalt leftover
underside. "But never bite off
more than you can chew, Son.

One land's trespass is some
other hand's treaty, scrying to
pontify the bounty he’s justified.
Yes, I've seen the future, and it's
a gastric bypass one. Your story
could go anywhere really...

(just if I’d done it differently), but
you're here now, muking the
scenic route of a busy rookery,
so be happy! Hell, when I's your
age, I’d've been proud to stuff my
gullet in the gully of a tree-topped

'57 Galley; the sun-fired steel
autocookin' my meal in the valet
lot of this beautiful blind-spot
valley." As I listened to old crow
trying to encourage a doomed
generation, I flew the irony

of an ancient bucket of bolts,
resurrected with pride, rocketing
the countryside only to end up
suspended at the highest point
in the bottom of a canyon; all
for the shiny distraction

of a sign-language safety worker.
It wasn't until we got to his eyes
that I realized who I was and,
wished that I had been the other
nigger wandering the skies...
hungry. "Don't worry," said Dad,

"when you're being eaten alive,
you're not offended by epithets."
Confusion, anger, and regret
mixed my blood-sweaty sestet
omelet; and losing sight of myself,
I accepted my potential as a crow.