hello disposable,
peel off your wrapper and
put on your boots, and
plug in a secondhand backbone
your soul is too
cheap to sell, like plastic
poker chips that barter for
the idea of value in spades
good morning landmine,
keep your eyes licking the dirt
no need to see the sandals she
made herself, with long
warm stinking nights of knotting
you will cough up
plastic children, peel them
clean and stand them upright,
and breathe out aerosol hiss, saying:
stay here in our plastic garden
because there are rats out there, burrowing
in sewers and wombs
and we have poker chip millions
and three-dollar girls