Another forty hours crucified.
Invisibly, more soul gets dissected
and tossed beneath the altar.
No matter how scared you are
of who you owe or what you miss
commuting to work
in the fog, realize,
even a life in the breeze gets snagged.
Plastic catches in barbed wire,
but untouched, the clocks gears
never quit braiding their brass
fingers throughout the long shift;
and that is lunchtime news worth clipping.
So head-stash a crooked little grin
as if it were Earth’s last blue flame,
burn home and shed that spotted
costume from your corolla
like flower petals thrown down
from the rain.