Flame

dirty dishes in the sink
a [bad word] cedar point
wake up at noon and brush your teeth
with last night’s half-smoked joint
turn on tv and sing along
commercials and theme songs
pour yourself a shot of breakfast and
chase it down with memories
failed return-to-sender pleas
able danger
this bed’s not gonna make itself
bum a smoke from your wacky sitcom neighbor
in every flame there’s a little piece of hell
we climb our way up to the top
leaving a trail of bruised hearts
poets working at auto shops
knowing smiles and spare parts
twelve-hour shifts and breaks for tea and cigarettes
long bus rides home past factories and barbwire fence