The refinery stuffs male chicks into sewage

pipes, then charges you for daydreaming on the

job. Where there are walls, there will always be

hands—or, hand—and stream of conscious

piss painting a masterpiece on the graffiti-lined

echo chamber disguised as dissent. It’s not

hell, it’s not even purgatory, it’s a headline

repurposed to be a poem. Shake your prick well

before zipping up your jeans. Don’t apologize,

there’s nothing to be happy for. The sound of metal

grazes your cheek. Cuts through casus belli and

your 9 a.m. strategy meeting. Somewhere a woman

slices onions with the knife she kisses in secret. Some-

where she rests her hand on your knee to stop

it from throttling the kitchen counter as you

talk about why you don’t want to talk about the

thing. The thing is an old story. The thing is, burning,

speeding, gaining unwanted velocity will be the end

of you who has not even begun. Tomorrow was

the same as today, as swollen as the moon lighting

your nightly walks to the convenience store. Experts

say that that one city’s colonial past is linked to flooding

and poor urban planning. Well, of course. Outpour

will breed repetition and the demise of health

benefits, coupons, and expired pay. Paternity leave is

seven days too short to hold the baby, to cradle her

brittle neck, and to kiss her eyelids. So tell her that

no one will ever hurt her. Trace her cheek with the

finger you purposefully stapled this morning. Hand

her back to her mother. Don’t forget to clock out

after you do.