frailty beneath wreckage By Weasel

frailty beneath wreckage

when the sun rises
they will come to take the car
they will pull it out onto the street
they will knock on the door
and tell me that the bill is past due

by the afternoon
the lights will be shut off
i will peel poems
from my skin
and mail them to the debtors
for i have nothing else

they are not interested in my begging
there are no more extensions
they say they tried
yet their negotiations
are not flexible

the collectors have finally caught me
their fingers encircle my throat
leaving me without breath

i could pray, but prayer
is only a currency
made of air
it cannot fulfill demands
it can only push back the inevitable

i have nothing
they can take
i am a shell
buried in the back yard

By Weasel


Weasel is a degenerate writer who received his Bachelor of Arts in Literature at the University of Houston-Clear Lake. He currently uses it as scrap paper to fuel the publishing endeavors of Weasel Press and its erotic imprint Red Ferret Press.

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