S.M. Ellis
Don’t forget the foreman’s Honda.
They snowplowed the doors
& let him freeze. Tuxedo Justice,
mom said. Let him
die by the swoop of the wrecking ball
when this place shuts down. Let him
miss the earthquake in Bangladesh
on morning news, the cartoons,
& after graveshifts, miss out
on hashbrowns & eggs
like the last meals
of inmates.
Let the Browns run to Baltimore
& the E-Z marts with all the wrappers
peeled like classifieds & there’s
just flies in the sugarpot, see?
Let them go anywhere & soon.
Who found who
in a thousand years, primitive man
in perfect ice? Did he dial AAA?
Did his two sons come
to shovel? I ask mom.
To this day.
