Friday, February 14, 2014


Ghastly streaks 
of muddy salt
on a beat-up

truck—in front
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
to ask—when the time comes

for the deposit
on your slavery back.