Novice Night

Down tissue-gagged avenues,

behind frosty windshields,

this is where you find us.

Keepers of conscience,

solicitors of sorrow,

racketeering rubies tucked in old socks

in sideshow corner clothes bins.

Where you find us is bittersweet and diluted,

hovering between the tire tracks

on traffic-specked beltways,

under which the gardener trims

his quaint, award-winning hedges,

where Sagittarius-born murderers wait

scientifically in kleptomaniacal patience

that slowly sheds its cloak to reveal

a buzzing, honey-like chaos,

with clockwork engineers in earthbound craters.

This is where we are, buried in our stolen graves.

Although where we are is agony,

what we see is exponentially bliss,

so judge us not by the scars on our skin,

but those on our souls.

This is where you find us,

in the last inch of sun peeking through the blinds.