Walking Girl

Transients in the yellow pickup 
barrel down the rickety road along the bay 
hoot like desperate cowboys
the bay is a desolate cemetery at sundown 
she enjoys their hollers and whistles
as she walks over the dead thing
that could have been a seagull 
but is mangled now beyond recognition 
she shares a familiar sentiment 
with the dead thing and its ravaged feathers 
forming a trail to nowhere 
that she follows obediently
at dusk 
while those boys hoot away
her shorts
clipped enough to bare 
her ass cheeks 
as she strolls along the devils run 
at dusk 
for no real reason 
if just to hear them call her name