and the debt we owe ourselves
for the losses in our ledger
can’t be paid by credit
even as we add another lien
to our children’s future.
Our souls are left in a little black tray
on red and white diner table cloth
between greasy fry crumbs
and the beef fat
of Southern-style exorbitance.
Thank God the man by the door is armed right?
Apparently, Tennessee needs
his untrained aim to train aim
so we’re kept safe
or maybe just kept. We’re trying,
we tell our children
out the door into the lot
even though it feels we’re just a car
among trucks,
it’s not too late and we’re not alone, but I’m
T-shirt in November and that thumb-width
empty space between the (R) and the checkbox
met so many pens today
that we feel we left our dignity
back on the polling table to be bussed back,
dumped in a sink with bits of crust,
broccoli stems,
and a bone fragment
whose crack left in our bite
will soon infect.
