run out of breath, & silence follows
rather than the little death. stub my shins
on everything. not the bull in a china shop,
I’m a bull on the porcelain Earth.
if there’s a Bandage District in your town,
my afternoons help its workers earn.
when the mail runs, seems like days
no answers come, but a few new questions
in the form of debt. encore, encore.
even the cops don’t look for me,
they, too, have forsaken me. I used to call &
complain about the noise. they said,
turn off your ears—your final warning!
I didn’t hear what they told me after that.
How Do You Know You Can Do Better?
