It won't cause drowsiness—you can drive.

“Past the children living in
Poverty,” in
           a refrigerator-
           sized box

bruised with juices and
postal codes. They have

lost their shoes to the telephone
poles and overhead wires.
                               Their appetites

patter on the tar-pocked rooves alighting
pigeons. No, that isn't rain, that's
           Miss Prison.

Around here, she wears a red-laser spot on her neck.

In the dark, someone
emptied out the drawers, tacked everything
to a white sheet and ran the tape.
                                      You can

cut through anything with this here.

                                      Lovingly
                                      handcrafted, you
get a full set.

Fortified with
siding,
shingles,
sandal rubber,
vitamin
           circulars when the board ceded to
           mold and teeth.      We are ready

to take your order, but
is it right for your kind of pain?

An offscreen
hand halves a can, lets the
           contents ooze.

This is all I've had today.