Old Chicken Bones

They think beneath things 
because they're afraid 
of the heights, bitter, 

hopelessly, inexplicably 
bitter. Dried turds 

impersonating 

humans 

poorly in the fast-food aisle 

plucking through radiant items 

of emoji food, no appetite 

simply the illiterate body-language 

of the dead fashion of 

an arrogant soul, brittle flesh mask 

missing the sounds of stoic indifference 

while the loud repetition of 

I don't know 

I don't know 

I don't know          runs along the 

missing Broca-wheels and the chamber 

of anonymity doubts the language 

it didn't have. 

The airy, sophisticated and comatose 

perpetually losing change 

and in the scarred aftermath 

of pick-up trucks 

walking up the hill  

to my house 

I hear the shrinking voices 

like feeble bones tossed 

casually 

into the yard.