Canned corn on a steel plate,
        cooled a long time ago
        when the sun was still ripe
        and the chair was still on all fours.

Cigarette butts discarded on the stove
        crumpled like crash test dummies
        burned, brutalized and- left behind,
        are only the parts that keep you safe.

The ceiling fan is motionless above
        compensating at a tilt for the missing blade
        dead skin piled on like a snow drift
        nodding soberly in the gust from an open window.

A closed door with holes that fit like gloves
        hides the muffled sounds of lament
        from somewhere beyond desperation
        lost deep in the forest of defeat.

No one has time to finish their meal.
                      not like this
                      not like this
                      not like this