descends the blinking red sign outside of the Carpenter's Union.

It's not a carrot, he jabs
that the neon hammer, banging over Woodward Avenue, drives into a neon nail,
yet, to me, the blinking bursts into Bugs Bunny's cigar.

The effect mesmerizes none of the panhandlers
pleading for a little something outside of Union Street.
He knows the crippled woman in the tattered dress,
says that she came in last week, stole a tip -

Yet, I don't want any of this!

I want to bang bang bang
toward that carrot we get
at the end of a rigmarole day -
grueling smiles, death & taxes, the same as it ever was...

I want to bang bang bang
until my carrot soothes
these words,
that aren't doing anything right tonight,
for he must go home
to his sleek machine
with fresh strings
that conveys the things I want to convey,

like strum i feel soft
like pluck give me a kiss.

He says,
Hammer Hammer Hammer Carrot
as he strides down Woodward,
cringing against the punch clock
yet scheming the aftermath to all this sucking up.

Doesn't everyone deserve a bright carrot after such a hammering as the boulevards gnaw?

Like neon, the moon
                                                                 &, at last, we suffer our rewards.
            - Erin Knowles

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