The body is on the pavement like pigeon shit,
splat against the concrete,
the blood pattern tight and clean
in a circle where the heart used to be,
now just empty space where a bullet
thought it would look for love.
On rainy days children jump in puddles
like these, the red wine their parents
drank at dinner splattered convincingly
across their chests,
stains growing across
the veins in their neck
until they too are flat on the pavement
like half-dried pigeon shit.