just smell them shoes
them shoes and that gold
Old Dollar Face all wrapped up
put a bow on.
Tissue box and harmony
bones and tinfoil on the old red carpet
the old man looks sad
policeman is crying
refuses to look up
"what's that over there?" you ask
Poor boy's covered in hungry birds
"that was my party," he mutters to his toes.
Gone the girl and sweet
like fresh cream
here mysterious ache,
lonely and scratching
missing Old Dollar Face on TV
"what'd you buy?" he asks,
he wipes his nose on his sleeve
the cold has you both tired,
"I bought us some fresh cream," you say,
and wipe it on your sleeve.
That friend you call Cambodian Skinny Boy
because hungry people are funny
wastes his vigilance looking for obvious enemies
under a blanket of cancer
like asking if there is enough disease to go around
"maybe not, but you could always put a plastic bag over your head,
there's always enough plastic to go around," you say
just being helpful.