cups full
of brown,
beige or virgin-white
coffee clutched
tight like new (and right
where those
old) stuffed
animals (used to go)—passive-aggressively
awake now,
although
that's what
we're going for.
*
Quitting time, dying like
Quitting time, dying like
hell to cash-
out, to grab hold of what-
ever coins we can and
explode like heretical
scrolls full
of incendiary common-sense
knowledge from some blustery
infernal old monastery—still compulsively
smoking a little, but making it look
as if
that's
what we're going for.
*
At night, feels like even to sleep
is to chance
cheating, to risk being called-
out by Tomorrow
for attempting
to sweep-in last
minute for the fast and
minute for the fast and
cheap lottery
ticket dream—so completely and so utterly
broke, although to be
broke, although to be
fair—that's
what we're
going for.
