The Resident Meets the Meter Maids

They divide and conquer
the nation of a certain residential street
in the peace of San Francisco with
its street lights speaking of one another
through power lines who flower
into levels of communication
neither evil nor benign
but expansive
as time becoming the essence

as a careful stroll of the meter maids will neither
impede the race against the frames of another faction
nor erase the buzz of automobiles scrambling
for a home in their eternal search for the left or right
eating of offspring from the side to side of street sweeps
little miss pacmans
eat the pretty pellets of parking spaces
reserved for dwellers of overpriced boxes
made of plaster and other compelling indications

their mandarin muffled by stereo static
their pugs speaking from large, glistening eyes of confusion
their pit bulls stare down for a space to place their fangs in
the side of the terriers shivering brown bodies
strolling down with a look of affluence and grace as
their hipster masters are lost in the middle of a mix
their long clumsy arms about to free
their fervent desire of a treaty with
their damned devil dogs barking for the Zodiac
about to dispense his pestilence
reserved for the neighbor
wanting only to
simply
park
his fucking
car