are shooting off
in his head again. The fuel-injected
engines have a full bed of range. Seems
as if things haven’t changed. Men

are getting burned from his
missiles. The steam kettle whistles
as the water boils. And the thistles
taste like cod-liver oil. I, as his mother,

pierced in the heart. Sick of this life
and playing the ****.  The old man can’t
help me. I’m in it alone. I crawl to
the bottle. Shut down the phone.