Shadow of the Dice
Exposed to the seizing against
the vice of seconds that grips
with the indifference of a wrench
I find the emergence of death-
in-this-life less disturbing,
an achievement of some short
distance. Here, in the inextricable
part of routine that rounds about
the clock that keeps my paycheck
just beneath a minimum wage
to live in a trailer park, next to
this pump station, where the
thought of pie cooling from
a neighbor’s kitchen window
supplies the itch without a rash
in the numbness of night’s limbs
quaking, nonetheless, in the blindness
of a storm’s asphalt heart shaking
any and all foundation left for me.
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