In this rabid world of religious wars
and Hummel figurines you squat your fitball
& wolf down those pretty handfuls of bunker-
busters your doctor Fed-Ex’d  for the ninth
time this month O, by now he knows
you’re a pathetic (but fast-pay) little
loser & hell everybody knows it—though
through your early morning fog, your “personal
best” you seem to give a fuck less and isn’t it fun
to play Find the Car in your garage, then
off you go to totter from the pump to the Food
Mart at the Conoco & how it feels just like
crossing between cars on a speeding Amtrak
train set to derail sixty miles south of Chicago
in Dwight, Illinois, in a howling blizzard
& the bad part is everyone aboard is knocked
shit-stupid like Beanie Babies, gets dismembered
& dies except you picking yourself up & staggering
off to the Antique Mall where a hand-scrawled
note taped to the window says “CLOSED
You Sick Little Cunt We’ve Been Waiting
For You All Morning Long Come Back
Tomorrow We’ll Have Freshly Made Fudge”