what you know is what you live.
you try to calculate the best way for smoke
to leave the body.
you must think of the wind, where it goes,
and the street lights, their intense orange glow.
the stupid talking of children and a muffled
voice of a warning, a reminder of vigilance.
your side started to hurt and you massaged it
while the boss counted your money.
it felt like loose cartilage or change.
it must be from how you sit, curled
as though confined by a shell.
you sigh and straighten up, but it feels
too late, right?
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