Is this our stop Dad?

I push through the thick smog of evening. Like a flock of crows

dressed in bowties and heavy black suits,

they flee chicken coops.

.

Pink flipflops stamp over countless boots behind;

cadavers laid on the red carpet.

They push plush highlighters over rotting faces. Feces.

I imagine Sisyphus happy; once more.

.

Little brown fingers

tug at my hem; her smile outdates her stature.

"is this our stop dad?" her stare unflinchingly happy.