An ordinary Sunday summer afternoon,

kids on the block race for the truck

at the sound of the bells, begging for money

or trashing a piggy-bank; little hands clutch

change, offering it up like alms to the man in white

who listens to pleas for ice pops and Eskimo pies.

A young boy licking a gloppy concoction

mindlessly dashes across the street head-on

into a Chevy Camaro.

Brakes slam like a pterodactyl’s screech.

A walloping thump; startled neighbors’

Sunday papers fall to the floor, frantic

parents run, legs spinning in place.

The boy splayed against a windshield.

A rivulet of blood on black macadam,

and a splatter on the Good Humor Man is

all that remain as a snarling ambulance

rushes away.

Only the wail and shriek of parents is heard.

A hard eyed teen with a shaved head and devilish

goatee, ears, eyes and nose pierced with gold, shows

no remorse to police as he raises an arm tattooed

with “hooligan” in gothic calligraphy, lighting

a cigarette.

Under a night sky of blackened stars, neighbors

leave flowers and food at the door of parents.

Lost in a horizonless sea, irrevocable silence

fills their house.

A grim faced moon shines through a window

on an empty bed.