Mobs

by

Jesse McCree

 

A pact was made: it was a bond made

By simple men and women living out their days.

Sleepless nights collected in bulges under eyes

The laughter broke too quickly

Exploded too high.

They needed an agreement and a rest

From those that insist.

They knew it was coming, but just

Chose not to see it.

            While they sang folk songs from old soul sounds

The clouds descended in June and put down roots.

He sat down on Curtis and refused to move.

Joints grown weak, now old in the heart,

Spilled too much blood to make a profit.

            While he sang folk songs from old soul sounds

She had the look of an untrained surgeon:

Jack-knifed and urgent.

The rain at Davis came down in sheets and rows

And it landed in a bedroom and curled round some toes.

That was, until she pulled her surgeon curtains closed.

            While she sang folk songs from old soul sounds

We are careless with our love:

Erratic.

We are the applause that makes your

Rib cage rattle.

The catalyst of all the dangerous

The bones of the city that loves us.

            Songs and souls and sounds that sing:

We all have the look of an unchecked mob

Sweeping up the unfortunate and awed.