brushfires, opened vials of sweat.
The noise—my God, the noise:
radio static at 2 a.m., constant talking,
shouting, hands slapping tables,
fists clipping chins.
Every wound is a spider bite or staph infection.
Everyone cheats at cards.
All men are guilty,
no matter what they didn’t do;
lonely whoever they’ve met in their lives outside.
Better to rest in a rattlesnake pit &
wait awhile to be devoured,
knowing the tension never lasts too long.