Plum Pigeon Pit

I let go of a pit from a plum, unwashed fingers
From the window of your truck
Sixteen miles south of town
We don't talk anymore
My throat's an ashtray for your worries
Ask me "a boy or a girl?"
There are things that make you worried
Make you whisper at the restaurant

And I look back and forth from the cop in the kitchen
And the blood on your face, and the blood in the carpet
I can smell rotting fish when the shadow overtakes us
And the seagulls dive in hundreds and
The vultures blacken out the sun