Shit shui

Sunlight warps through trees to warm tall grass that creeps from the forest
to surround
Big Wheels,
to climb
rotting fences,
to grow through
greasy engine compartments.

Muddy foot paths weave through push mowers, used condoms, baby carriages, worn out rubber tires, empty beer bottles.

Open ended tin buildings concentrate the flotsam of shit into a shui that forms a particle economy that winds through the community where psychotic dogs tear their throats out while warning a pack that condemns them to live it out at the end of a chain.

Rusted poles with tattered Old Glory and MIA-POW flags fly for forgotten veterans.
Polystyrene containers blow through feral fields with wood dust and rust to settle at the sides of dilapidated chicken coups, mix with feces, compost and nourish dandelions that feed bees and sunflowers for birds.

Molding porn magazines are piled alongside tool boxes stuffed with wrenches that escape crack heads and pawn shops until they rust and become useless.

The shit moves between garage sales where drunken misanthropes with turd stained underwear are gratefully immune to the shui of expecting mothers and their unsuspecting mates whose $45,000, Ford, 4x4, crew cab, heavy duty, turbo charged pickup trucks and expansive McMansions generate high interest credit card debt that dooms snot nosed children to yards full of dirty diapers where they scream for lost nipples.