My pockets are all filling up with rust.
My shoes leak motor oil now,
in diamond-patterned prints,
dark honey-brown.
My toenail polish chips.
At night I hear my eyeballs creak,
dried out from all the kerosene I found
sloshing in the silver gallon.
My hissing static dreams,
in black and white,
are a midweek midday
lineup of soaps, game shows, sitcoms.
Sometimes I rouse myself enough to tweak
my wilting wire antenna.
Most nights I let it play;
nothing else on.
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