Your shadow follows me
like an oil smear on asphalt.
I carry your shrunken head in a paper bag.
No one mistakes it for wine.
The factory label reads:
“Do not cut threads between lips.”
You drooled forty-five books
before Daddy Death decked you.
Still, precautions must be taken
because you took democracy too far.
Now anyone with a spray can thinks he’s a poet â€“
just look at our streets.