In the kitchen,

electric suns and a scorched

rain roiling up from the metal

crust like the flood Noah would

not have survived.

Hungry, I still turn away

from the last few seconds

of deserved and unearned life.

My life lays over me like a bib.

What bullets does it block

from my breasts?

Through the window,

filthy afternoon trudges in

from the rails like a hobo.

Every table in the dining room

is set to the music of

scoundrels naming their children.

From the kitchen,

streaming remnants of

finish lines.

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