like trapped dirt and hair in
the floorboards of a musty attack,
crackling like a phone full of static. Eyes
slot machines in dollar signs

bright green. I couldn't get over;
he was mixed like a box of Russell
Stover. As a turtle I was ready
to snap. Running like sap out of

the maple tree I fell and bruised
my knee and ticker. As the years drew on
I grew sicker. But I hung in there with
my scabs without keeping tabs.