Riffing on Joy Harjo's "Climbing the Streets of Worcester, Mass."

All the pigeon-gray houses have closed their eyes
for beddy-bye and there's a man wearing Glad bags
on the corner waving a busted hockey stick like he's
just won the Whatever Cup. Mother tells me
to get in the door and not to look him in the eye--
you'll die, you'll die--
so I reach the door handle and hold on for
dear life. Mother has been making pennies
for my piggy bank all day,
her cracked knuckles struck all those little
coins and put the faces and buildings
on them, and there they go in the bank, which
is not a pig but a hock of ham advertising for Jones
BBQ. Mother says that the bag man needs pennies
but never to give him one. He'll want them all, sweet
boy. And the train runs and rattles the clown statuettes
on the cabinet, wind pouring in the windows.