A nearly-elderly couple
(I mean the awkward post-middle-age
stage where the physical energy can't
quite keep up with the emotional energy.)
pays me minimum wage
to burn myself in as many ways as possible.

And I'm pretty okay with that.

I heard a gunshot
from my bedroom window last night,
followed by the screeching departure
of four tires supporting
a metal case of high school dropouts.

And I'm pretty okay with that, too.