my neighbor the guards. The rain
isn’t water. It’s poisonous shards.  The
rhododendrons aren’t shrubs. They’re
surgeons in scrubs. The grass are blades

cutting into my legs. Women are cooks
roasting me on a spit. Men are hooks
digging deep for a slit. The bus is a walrus
leaving at seven. I have the fare. But I

won’t walk over, not with these
legs, not until I am sober! It will not
take me far. It doesn’t burn rubber. The bus
runs on a tank full of thick blubber.