Trouble in the lot:
refuse overflow,
denial descending
arpeggio, crows
picking their way
through flesh-flecks
of commerce.
Enter our amigo,
at the crux of this
fussy influx of
carnage, uniform
strapped on slowly
like armor, making
off-the-cuff remarks
of mourning for a filthy
premonition. Ghastly
shades rumble in the
dumpster. No matter
how new, still the same
cracks in the foundation.
Though spacious
inside, outside surrounds
with no body, no body,
and rather than feel sorry,
it's best to delay worry
for next dumb stumble,
some oncoming name-wreck
cycling through gasping
brain, fighting
stupid, working
stupid, working
overtime to fatten
a far-off paycheck.
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