Mr. Full, I’m Mr. Empty. Rub my bones
together to spark a wispy fire. Swallow

your pride, keep yourself warm on the oil
of my intestine. Try a little garnish

of wages on the side. Not like North
Korea where they’re so hungry women

eat their afterbirth. Not like Tutsi / Hutu
holocaust chutzpah. Here, just plaster

from project walls and Twinkies with food
stamps while trust fund babies quaff ecstasy

by the lake. Oh, those happy happy kids.
Mr. Empty on the cellphone, without two Franklins

to rub together, coming to you live. I’m
moving in. I’ll be on your wraparound

mortgaged porch. I’ll be walking little Ashley
to school, keeping her out of traffic

and trouble. I’ll be your sleeping bag, your
makeup kit. The Lakota used every piece

of the buffalo and I expect no less
from you. If you rub me hard enough

against the rough concrete of the voters,
my skin comes off like grated cheese.

Recover the chaise. Patch the frayed cord
of the tennis net. Resole that old soft shoe.