Ghastly streaks
of muddy salt
on a beat-up
truck—in front
of
me in thick plumes of traffic
nearly seemed
to spell it out—look! at what
this life is—every ugly
single day
you pay
a little bit of rent—and
by and by
feel justified—which is just
a word
you use
for tired—in feeling like
you own the space
in which you walk
around and
put upon your grizzled face
a cold
and skinny reticence
to ever even think
to try
to remember
who
to ask—when the time comes
for the deposit
on your slavery back.
