Who knows why 
the deers choose
Chatham Street
to gather, but I drive
by the corner
lot, and there they
huddle 
glass-eyed
majesty. 

We not supposed 
to see wildlife here, 
where sirens spin 
the night air it’s 
own soundtrack:
You hear that
and that could be 
anything from behind
your locked doors. 

This block gap-toothed,
fickle. Field 
of yellow grass. 
Field of soiled pampers
and beer bottles. 
Food dessert, 
but they graze anyhow. 
Whole herd of heads
dipped so low I almost
get out the car and kneel.