Half-painted red sidewalks
of a failed government project,
the sun-steamed stench of piss,
piercing; I should turn my attention
to the garden sunbirds, drinking
from musk sweet petals, or the
glittering gold skinks ambling
on detritus – instead,
I count
the small
dead things:

desiccated shrubs; gray
lumps of mice, teeth bared
and supine, surrendering
to rubber tires, and that one
large rodent fading in a
neighbor’s neglected patch
of weeds, fur first, then
fleshy tail – finally,
the bones licked clean
by flies – on another side,
a kitten, crucified
on a wooden plank,
waiting for its mother
who lies on a rain-slicked
street, belly swollen and stiff,
staring vacantly at car lights;
and that one gaping hole
on the pavement where
somebody threw a bruised
jackfruit and a bottle of
yellowed milk, both rotting
from the inside. Each day,
I count decay as my dog
tugs on his leash:

he has places to go,
and so do I, despite
what remains.