A scrape on the sidewalk, a taste
for bottles pequeños of Mexican Coke.
Young trunk bending to a breeze of sound,
it’s gender-neutral, encrypted, distilled
to silence and sighs. Pierced stone armor
filters it free of you-listen-to-me.
Out of reach, out of touch. Song
follows song from its nail-gun bandolier.
The whole world should turn vegan.