John Haney

Winter's Tail

Beneath a bucket-grey winter sky
we dot-and-dash our stop-start course
along the burdened promenade
of a Saturday street stickily cramped
with twitchy infants, quibbling mothers,
and beer-battered drinker
whose pellet-headed pit bulls'
creosote pupils half-heartedly drill
Through the everyday mayhem
with merely feigned truculence
born of cold chips and best end
of leftover pizza