Dead Fentanyl Cat

There was a dead little cat Splayed in the middle lane of Washington Street While I passed And there was a man clumped to the curb Pinching his chubby chin Between his thumb and index finger Like a final played poker chip His eyes as flattened as aces on cards In a corner bar across the street While the police rubbed his shoulders and pencil notes From the rotten sounds ground between his teeth. Another man a driveway down Has a nose displaced a million miles from his face Smeared into his hanky. Hoping no one notices A woman wiggles in the wind out back Like a Fentanyl clothesline clipped with a menu Her age is a choice. A third man on his back naps In that front yard Clutching his hands To a samurai sword’s shiny blade Slippery and stood straight up From under and through him Bubbling Like a park fountain of roses. Did it all start this morning In their tiny crooked house? Their cat scooting from underneath A missed kick and through a crick Of an unhinged front door Out to the busy road? If that for them Was quite simply the last straw?