in the place where i crossed the street each weekday morning complaining about little things in my petty mind a man's feet stick out from under a police blanket i watch the screen to see if i know that set of toes one with an athletic shoe on other in white sock i do know the arab lady hands on her gold cheeks her son obviously angry i know him as well more people lay along the road misshapen sculptures squeezed by angry gigantic hands into piles of flesh with their limbs twisted or broken or sticking out of blankets fluttering in the wind held with drying blood