by: William A. Marshall
we fill a pig
we fill the job
we fill in the blank
we fill a **** tank
our plot of dirt
and wreathed granite
we fill our gut
we fill the dish
we fill a wall
with frame
and single-mindedness
we fill our cup
we fill a slot
we fill up the dog
with greasy scraps
that no one wanted
since they’re full
and we seal friends
with cake from cheap
card board boxes
stuffed with sugar
and nonsense
we fill our kids
with what we want
we fill a prison
we fill our brain
and cabbage chest
that eventually rots
and smells
like old Roses De Chloé
and Loreal pigment
we fill our *******
crows feet with collagen
instead of admiring them
like the meritorious stripes
that they are
they rest in ashen dust
gin vapor and vehicle identity
finally blows up
and floats away
like a bad check
a shadow on the landing
up high,
a sun drenched butte
where lupine and sage grows
out of touch from hectors
reaching what counts,
quiet breezes can be heard
shrilling through the rock
and now bare
dignity never shows up
at times like this,
vultures hover over
the empty can of a carcass
and bones that once stood
just and ran full
and fought clashes,
nothing is full now
and what matters
most is
now
empty.