dirty dishes in the sink a cockroach 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