Jackals. 

Edit: Tried to fix the awkward formatting. I couldn’t. It’s 1:30am. *passes out*

Oh, when I spend Saturday nights in the city…
Echoes off jagged stone made smooth

With a workman’s hands

And a sharp mind’s design. 

I hear the laughter of jackals. 
They dance through crosswalks,

If they use them at all,

In defiance of that big red hand,

And those straight, painted lines. 

I hear the laughter of jackals. 
They fiend for their fix,

Twitchy and nervous,

Looking around every corner in a state of paranoia because they know they do wrong. 

But they keep on doing it. 

I hear the laughter of jackals. 
Wringed hands behind panes of glass

So high and so thick

That they might as well be stars

The way they shine on an asphalt-sweltering day on the sidewalks of the Lowers. 

I hear the laughter of jackals. 
Jingling earrings and bare, dirty paws

Standing on blacktop. 

A cigarette, a wrinkled eye, a dwindling cigarette. 

Jokes that aren’t funny in a bar that isn’t expensive. 

I hear the laughter of jackals. 
How harmonious they are

With screeching tires and waves of bass

With concrete crickets and yawning, groaning highways.  

How interesting it must be to live a life here. 

I hear the laughter of jackals. 

– R. 

Seriously, don’t let me stay overnight in city parking lots anymore. I keep doing it. 

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