What sad concoctions can we table tonight?
"He said as he typed, back sore from being stacked
against wood"; inexplicable surges pay
for what is one of the last sites, but
holding own in the throat-
a part us, a part I, a cut high,
all in cool, soft as toffee-
sour fun detonates like a gust
from a passing subway car,
jolting hands slap on a turtleneck
as prudent insurance