What dimension, what box, what cool selling
shall I give my paper to tonight?
Cracked and used sidewalks pounded
with decomposing leaves and previous washings.
The weight of cars in the parking lot must
make the road, weep and seep out of control,
such a task, such a career: the most tattooed profession
in all the flat farm land and always occupied.

I trouble you once more, my sad gravelly friend.
Lifting the latch, a plump foot on your head,
stale steps to the front door,
thanks for the ride.