A treatise on spiced
pork shoulder, the correct
way for a sandwich to
fall apart:
in your hands, before biting.
dripping down Denny, spreading
lettuce with my gait, I am in
no hurry to get anywhere:
I am in a hurry to get
everywhere.
Half recollected bounce back
of a Ludacris song. Wind chimes
in the city like phone
dings. A future child
mocks the tortured novelty
of ringtones:
Why would you- how could you-
possibly think that was
cool?
Down the hill and up again,
ten dollar street food, plastic
fork. Ten miles between trash
cans.
Clouds and heat disagree,
there is no truce in the weather,
there is no energy in this protein
there is no welcoming handshake
at my destination:
dirge, dirge, dirge.
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