by now i have developed pictures of women torn in between by blanket hands singing the nightly death of lost sons and graveyard husbands who cheat on their own corpse with handfuls of loose dirt tombstone etchings like the faded green numbers on the loose flesh of your forearm social security wrapping each digit like the worms of inheritance asking for whore money out of your poor sickly pants, cum stained and faded like a sidewalk cracked like teeth, smiling like a building -son of dad