The smell always hits you first
Every time we ram one of their doors
Even seasoned salvage veterans vomit
Silent apartment
Save for a high pitched whine
Debris and dead food
Heaped and strewn at random
And the smell
I bite back the bile
My lucky day
I find
The worshiper of the one-eyed virtual god
Her hair tangled in greasy masses
Twitching and panting on the floor
Struggling to crawl back into the chair
Blind eyes searching for one more phosphor-fix
Bony fingers reaching for the joy-jack
And I remember
My daughter . . .
Months later
She is sitting across the table
Cleaned up
Politely interested in my opinion
Amused at the general tone of this litigation
She knows she must convince the doctors
The board
Even me
That she's well past it
No one ever listens to me
Equipment is cheap on the streets
And she'll be jacked in
Before the first snow
Maybe next time
She won't be so fortunate
And some other poor slob
Will have to put his little girl
in a box
Flesh is not steel
it does not temper
It heals when it can
scars when it can not
And bleeds at the slightest excuse
SON OF THE MAPLE TREE
Your son
More you than I could ever be
looks out the window
in a dream
His breath clouds the glass
Mists boil up over the river bank
And move across the yard
touching
hiding everything
His eyes are not silent
In the coming darkness
I put my hand on his shoulder
I want to hear his question
Perhaps that would be a start
He stands without looking at me
and moves to the empty table
We eat in silence