View by Stephen Keating

One section 
of the sidewalk 
has a huge purple stain 
and a popsicle stick; 
the temperature is 
one hundred eight degrees.
A crow struts 
over the short grass 
like a member of the Gestapo on parade. 
He stops from time to time 
to look around 
with disapproval 
at the flat world he was given.
Looking at the Catalinas 
in the distance, 
sunlight glistening 
off concertina wire 
strikes my eye, reminding me 
that this is the only view 
I will ever have.
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