It’s just about night
and I pray to a face
a mirror frames.
The old man in a room
wearing a suit lightly
dusted with cigarette ash.
A nine year old boy
sneaks in to take handfuls
of mortar dust.
A plastic skin
around a powder of saltines,
ash and dust and food.
Ashtray of dark green
cut glass, heavy and clear
and empty.
a vein of cellophane
beside it, gilded edge
of cigarette wrapper.
A crust of life around
the dish in the sink.
Pipe of broken laughter.
The day closed around
the boy like a hand
holding a mouse.
Blood and water
and claws, singing
I won, I won.
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