The People Inside
I had to kick it off last night - too sticky.
Usually there's never enough, never that satisfaction
of a lungful you read about.
The closet eater, the eater of Hide-a-beds, the devoured:
there's a man sitting next to me at the counter
who's eating as if he were hungry and it was natural.
One takes to drinking whatever's at hand,
whatever tastes thirsty and bottomless, whatever flows
the way I'm going.
Home I guess. One with the solid roof you get when you press
forefingers together, and littlefingers together. The kind
you crack open with your hands to wiggle the people inside.